


Return to Sanditon - The Redemption of Sir Edward Denham

by Angie_loves_Sanditon



Series: Return To Sanditon - Novella Collection [3]
Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: Fanfiction, Gen, Novella, Return to Sanditon, Sanditon (ITV2019), SanditonSeason2, SanditonSisterhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22106422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angie_loves_Sanditon/pseuds/Angie_loves_Sanditon
Summary: This is my third novella in the Return to Sanditon collection - Edward’s story.We pick the story up following the conclusion of Gunpowder and Rose (Crowe's story).Edward is currently in exile in France when his path crosses with a mysterious gentlemen who offers him a way home. He soon becomes embroiled in intrigue and has to work alongside his new associates to prevent a disaster from occurring on British soil. Renewing acquaintances, he soon realises that he is being given a second chance.We left Clara devastated by the heart wrenching decision to send her daughter away to live with Edwards sister. An unexpected wedding invitation brings about surprising but welcome consequences and soon she finds her path once more entwined with Edward. Can they put past actions behind them and forge a new future?This novella is written in my own style and, although inspired by Sanditon 2019, it has taken the story further and introduced new characters (as with Crowe's). It is not written in the Austen style as the storylines are broader and the vocabulary less pure.Apologies in advance for grammatical errors - I'll hopefully resolve them soon!41k words and 26 chapters plus epilogue.
Relationships: Clara Brereton/Edward Denham
Series: Return To Sanditon - Novella Collection [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551139
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20





	Return to Sanditon - The Redemption of Sir Edward Denham

# The Redemption

# of

# Sir Edward Denham

# A Return to Sanditon Novella

# by

# Angie Stenning 

One

_Lille, France_

Sir Edward Denham was once the toast of society; a Baronet in reduced circumstances, admittedly, but with a face the ladies adored and charm enough to tempt angels into mischief, he had only lacked one thing; blunt. As Edward reminisced, he stubbornly refused to ponder those other irritating facets of life that a man might covet; love, companionship, family. Home.

As he slowly woke from his half-dreaming state; Edward opened his eyes and regarded for the five hundredth time, the shabby surroundings of his current billet. In the attics of a French boarding house; his room was hardly commodious. He had been here for a year and a half. That was when the monies had started to dwindle. Between his Aunt’s pay-off and the funds given to him by Babington and the conniving Eliza Campion, he had lived comfortably enough for just over four years. After which, the little he had accumulated gambling at taverns and inns, had supplemented him enough to be able to continue his exile without resorting to thievery. Just.

He rose, shrugging into his breeches, then walked the few steps to the small window under the eaves that provided him with his only source of light. The day was unseasonably bright. The leaves on the elm trees were beginning to turn from their verdant summer green to a gentle ochre. The streets were busy as tradesmen and workers began their busy days. Life in France was vibrant and melodic, even in the roughest quarters.

Of course, Edward had been a gentleman of leisure in England; never rising until past midday. Here, he could find no reason to stay abed, and he seldom had the funds to indulge in hangovers. Shame that; he thought, it had been too long since he had been foxed after a bellyful of decent brandy. As he located his shirt and slipped it over his head, a knock sounded; echoing around his sparsely furnished attic room.

“Monsieur Denham?” a pretty accented voice called him through the bedchamber door. “A letter has arrived for you, monsieur.”

Edward slid open the bolt and opened the door wide enough to accept his post from the obliging young woman. “Merci, Georgette.” Without preamble, he grasped the note from the girl’s hand and closed the door. He winced as he noted the look of disappointment on the lovely Georgette’s face as he failed to invite her in. He may have burnt his bridges there, he thought, but Edward had neither the time nor the inclination for a tumble when he had a letter to read. It could, of course, only be from one person and he was keen to learn what news his beautiful, scheming friend had to relay.

Using a knife, Edward broke the seal on the letter. He inhaled deeply as the scent of gardenias wafted gently from the folded vellum. For all of his days, this perfume would remind him of Clara. Bewitching, beguiling, betraying Clara.

Sitting, Edward began to read.

_Dear Edward_

_It has been some time since my last letter. Do not fear, dear man, as requested, your whereabouts are still known only to myself. However, some recent events have occurred, of which I feel I am duty-bound to inform you._

_I have this day, with a heavy heart but a clear conscience, surrendered my daughter – our daughter, Violet, into the care of Lord and Lady Babington. From this day forth, she will be raised in comfort and, god-willing, escape the scandal that both of her selfish parents have courted for so long._

_I do not know if familial reconciliation is in your future, however, should you ever return to these shores, you should at least know where to locate your child. My future is less certain. This life of a courtesan is as ephemeral as a shooting star; she who is the toast of the town one day may find herself in the gutter the next. Therefore, should something ever happen to me, I must ask for your solemn promise that you will ensure that our daughter is kept free from harm, always._

_Your Friend_

_Clara Brereton_

That evening, Sir Edward Denham sat in a small tavern in one of the seedier districts of Lille. It was unwise for an Englishman to be at large in these parts, but he had been a resident for long enough, and his French passably adequate, to have gone largely unnoticed. One would never, in a hundred years, guess him to be a member of the English upper class. A Baronet, in this place and time, was hardly something to advertise. Yet today, his exiled existence was not his primary concern.

He read the lines in the letter once more, and with a final inhalation of the faintly scented velum, tossed the message into the fire.

So, Esther and her lackwit of a husband had condescended to offer charity to his natural daughter. How ironic fate could be. Long since resigned to the events of six years ago, he still held on tightly to the resentment over his high-handed treatment. He regretted the day his path had ever crossed with Eliza Campion. Still, at least he was free from the daily torment of seeing his stepsister deliriously happy. By all accounts, her primary occupation was providing Babington with a bevvy of offspring. He took a long gulp of his red wine as his thoughts turned to his unlikely friend and only remaining connection with England.

Clara, Clara, what a life you have been forced to lead, he sighed. Regrets and guilt flooded him when he thought of the part he had played in her downfall. Though her innocence had been long gone, even when he had lain with her, she had had a fighter’s spirit and tenacity that he admired greatly and should have seen her triumph. Instead, her disgrace had been complete when she had found herself with child; her own family had thrown her to the wolves. Edward had been bereft when he had discovered he had left her with child, and he, in no position to ensure her well-being. Yet, her sense of humour had not left her, even at her lowest, Oh! The ignominy of naming the bastard daughter of a courtesan and a scoundrel after a stubborn and unforgiving old dragon like their aunt. How that old harridan must be enraged by the connection.

Yet, the child; his daughter, born on the wrong side of the blanket, awoke a curiosity in him that was, quite frankly, surprising. Odd that he, having never much been one for sentiment, or thinking of anyone but himself, be intrigued by a child. Did she look like him, or was she the very picture of her duplicitous mother? For duplicitous, she was, though no more so than he. They had made quite the formidable pair until they had been discovered, of course. Idle thoughts such as these were the route to bedlam, he groaned. Never would he have the opportunity to meet the child nor cross paths with her mother again, and that realisation saddened him.

Still, despite her faults, and she had many, Clara had risen from her fall from grace, and against all the odds, loved her child. Truly loved her. Enough to give her up in order to secure a better life. That took courage, he had to admit. The girl he had desired more than life itself, despite her treachery, still had the ability to surprise him. He chuckled. If only things had been different.

“Excusez-moi, Monsieur Denham?” A rough looking gentleman stood beside his chair. “Si vous pouviez m'épargner un moment de votre temps?

Edward, immediately on guard, wondered why he should spare this character a moment of his time. There was something fishy about his accent too; it was not quite right. He should know, it had taken him long enough to pick up the dialect of this region. He was so infernally tired of this. Watching his back and never quite being allowed to just breathe. Enough was enough.

“Drop the act, monsieur, you’re about as French as I am.” Edward gambled, in a low voice.

The man stared at him intently before coming to some kind of decision. He drew up a stool and sat. In a low voice, barely audible, he asked: “How would you like to go home, Sir Edward?”

Two

Well, that was not the response he was expecting, thought Edward. What the devil was going on and who the devil was he speaking to? It was apparent from the fellow’s clipped tones that he was educated, yet his appearance was that of a labourer or farmhand. With unkempt, dirty blonde hair and full beard, he considered the fellow carefully. Eyes alert; this man was no lackwit. What would an educated Englishman be doing in northern France, dressed as a ruffian in this godforsaken hole?

“You seem to know who I am, sir. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of stating your name and business?” Edward asked cautiously, keeping his voice low.

“I am Carlisle.” The man replied. “And the conversation we must have, unless you are content to rot away in this hell hole, must be in private.” Replied the man softly, but with purpose.

“Ho, ho. I am not wandering down some alley with a stranger, sir. Do I look like I’d appreciate my throat being sliced?” Edward scoffed. “I’ve found the ladies love this throat.” He added with a roguish grin.

“Denham. I am not here to slit your throat or to cause amusement. There is an offer that I have been sanctioned to make and that cannot be made in a back-alley tavern where every Tom, Dick or Francois can overhear.” The man growled. “I have a carriage in the yard, and propose we step out from this place to converse. On my honour, no harm will befall you.”

“Honour?” Edward considered the man sceptically. “You are a gentleman … or are you? I’m not quite certain what you could possibly know of honour.” 

The man stood quickly, knocking the table and unsettling Edward’s half-empty glass of red wine. Quickly checking the room to ensure they had not drawn undue attention, he leaned over and spoke menacingly, “Question my honour again and you will feel the slide of steel through your ribs.“ he pierced Edward with a glare. “As I understand it, Denham, you need us more than we need you. Join me or don’t, it’s of no concern of mine.” He turned and stalked to the tavern’s side entrance and stepped out into the evening chill.

Edward sat and watched the man leave before curiosity overwhelmed him. He stood and quickly followed the man into the alley and was relieved to see him standing next to the open door of a closed carriage, conversing quietly with its occupant. He turned as he heard Edward approach and glared.

Edward moved towards him cautiously, raising his hands in supplication, “I believe we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” He spoke in a conciliatory tone. “I have come to listen to your proposal.”

The man, Carlisle, grunted and motioned to the carriage. “Then get in, we don’t have much time.”

Edward stepped into the darkened carriage to find another man cloaked in shadows. With a bravado he didn’t feel, he introduced himself. Carlisle hoisted himself in after Edward and took the seat next to his mysterious companion.

“You must be wondering why we have approached you, Sir Edward?” came an accented voice clearly belonging to the shadowed man. “Your name and location have been known to us for some time. It is not every day that we find a titled Englishman living in such squalor. I can only assume that fate had been unkind to you, mon ami.”

Edward startled slightly as the carriage jolted into motion. He swallowed, unsure whether he had just been incredibly foolish. He regarded the two figures before him with unease. “Perhaps we can start with some introductions? Particularly as we seem to be fast becoming travelling companions.” He spoke with an indifference he didn’t feel.

As the carriage moved through the streets of Lille, a gaslight illuminated the inside of the carriage for a moment before darkness shrouded them once more. The man was raven-haired with a peppering of grey adding a distinguished air, and sharp angular features, but most noticeable of all was a scar that ran down the whole of the left side of his face, slightly distorting the shape of his eye and continuing down to his jawline. Edward suppressed a shiver at the sinister visage. Who were these people?

“Where are my manners? You are quite right. I assume you have been introduced to my friend here, Monsieur Carlisle, yes?” he drawled, “I am Claude Dujardin.”

Edward dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Now, perhaps you can tell me why I am here?”

Dujardin paused for a moment, and Edward suspected that some hidden communication had just taken place between him and Carlisle. Obviously deciding that Edward was worthy of furthering their conversation, he began. “You have been here in France for a number of years now, yes?” he asked. At Edward’s nod, he continued. “Have you been keeping abreast of the political situation in your homeland during this time?”

Edward, unsure of where this conversation was leading, spoke cautiously. “I have heard things. News travels across the channel even to the less salubrious quarters.”

“Of course.” Dujardin murmured. “The past five years have been difficult for your government. Since your Regent’s ascension to the throne, he has been called to account over his imprudent spending whilst much of the country is crippled with taxes and poverty. The corn laws have made bitter men out of loyal countrymen. This is never good for the stability of the realm. I should know, I lived through the terrors here in my own country.” He shuddered at the memory of such brutal times. One must be of noble blood to be thus affected, Edward thought sympathetically.

“Alas, with the ill health of our King here in France, our political landscape and the mood of the people is once more changing like the sands in the great deserts. So, too is the fabric of your homeland. There is a determined movement, currently small in numbers, but dedicated nonetheless, who feel that the balance of power in England is unjust, and those who have fought for their countries and have worked each day to keep the cogs of the nobility turning, cannot remain unheard. The undercurrent of civil unrest is gaining momentum.” He moved forward in his seat and Edward once more glimpsed the face of a man who had clearly faced innumerable threats in his own lifetime.

Dujardin continued gravely. “But there is a small cell of men who are hell-bent on causing more than unrest; they wish to maim and cauterise those that stand in the way of reform. These men have plotted here, in France, where they believe their plans will go unnoticed. Their aim is to cause bloodshed at the very heart of London, and their targets include those amongst whom you have a connection. London Society reconvenes next month for the reopening of parliament. As is tradition, there will be balls and soirées almost every evening. Targets such as these appeal to revolutionaries.”

Edward stared at the man in front of him. If what he said were true, there would be anarchy in England. Although shocked by the news, he was still unsure why they were telling him. What did they want from him?

“That is disturbing indeed, Monsieur Dujardin.” He spoke earnestly, “But I truly do not see what any of this has to do with me. I can hardly stroll into a ballroom and tell the good lords and ladies to go home, now can I?” he laughed uneasily.

Carlisle spoke for the first time since entering the carriage. “In the tavern; you questioned my honour. I am still trying to decide if you possess any.” The jeering remark was like a splash of cold water to Edwards's face.

“Touché.” He replied sardonically. “I am as much a patriot as any man. However, I am without funds; without connections,” he grimaced “Or at least connections who would admit to knowing me. I am as much use as a carriage without wheels.”

Dujardin regarded Edward shrewdly before continuing. “Carlisle here, believes we have made a mistake in seeking you out. He believes you to be nothing more than a wastrel. I am not blessed with such quick judgement. I sense that you are not yet rotten to the core. Am I wrong?”

“That, monsieur, is for you to judge.” Edward bristled.

“Very well.” Dujardin rapped on the roof of the coach, and it drew to a halt.

Edward peered out of the window somewhat surprised to see that, by some circuitous move, they had stopped outside of his lodgings. He turned an incredulous gaze upon his two companions and asked, “That’s it? You have judged me as dishonourable and expect me to forget this conversation ever happened?”

Dujardin laughed. “After the efforts, we have gone to. I think not.” He pointed to the building, “No, Sir Edward, you have ten minutes to collect your belongings. Carlisle shall assist. Then I will tell you what you will do for us.”

Three

It took mere minutes to pack up the entirety of Edwards life into an old battered trunk and a single valise. Edward looked around the attic, that had been his home for over a year, wistfully. How life had changed. Like the ebb and flow of the tides, his life had moved from privilege to misfortune and back again with an inevitability that was now almost prophetic. This was not the moment to reflect upon the unfairness of his lot. He wasn’t completely ignorant of the role he himself had played in his misfortunes; much was of his own design.

“Let us remove from this hovel, Denham.” Carlisle lifted the trunk then moved to open the old wooden door, looking over his shoulder impatiently. Edward nodded and followed him from the room without a backward glance.

_Enroute to Dunkerque_

The coach lurched once more into motion and began a slow but steady pace away from the rundown district. All three men were silent as they rumbled along. Edward was glad of the peace, but uneasiness lingered as he pondered what may lie ahead. What did Dujardin want from him, and what of Carlisle, where did he fit in this intrigue? The man clearly didn’t like him. Nonetheless, the thought of returning to England was a temptation Edward was unable to dismiss. With the troubles of his past still fresh in his mind, he did not see how his life could possibly return to any semblance of normalcy, except, the thought of once more waking in his own bed in Denham Place would be a start, he supposed.

Finally, the silence was broken by the slowing of the carriage. They had left the city some time ago and had been travelling north-west on the road to Dunkerque. The lights and sounds of a busy coaching inn surrounded them, and Edward surmised that this would be their stop for the night.

Confirming Edwards suspicion, Dujardin spoke. “We will break our journey in Armentière. I would have liked to have made more progress, but it is not safe on these roads after nightfall.”

The inn was small and comfortable; quieter than those on the more popular road to Calais. Edward refreshed himself before making his way down to the private dining room secured by Dujardin upon their arrival. He would finally get some answers, he thought, still wary of what they had planned for him, but unwilling to remain ignorant any longer.

As he entered, Dujardin turned. As if reading the determination in Edward's face, he motioned for him to sit. “You have grown weary of waiting, Sir Edward? I can see. Carlisle shall be here shortly, but while we wait, you and I shall discuss what needs to be done.”

Edward moved to seat himself opposite his companion and poured himself a glass of wine from the carafe placed in the centre of the table. “Do go on. I am keen to hear the details of the scheme. I should also like to know what I gain from doing your bidding.”

“Ah, yes. I never imagined your services could be bought with simple passage to England, but I will come to that later.” Dujardin shifted slightly, resting his arms before him on the table. “When we spoke earlier, I alluded to a group of disillusioned Englishmen who have come to my country to plot and contrive a way to bring down your government. The French authorities cannot officially intervene but wish them gone. Rebellion is not far from the minds of many here, and these Englishmen are zealots. Whilst their ideologies of equality and fairness are to be commended, their plan to instil these by force cannot be supported on either side of the channel. Change will come as progressive thinking is imbedded into society’s conscience, but violence? No, violence will help no one.

We have intelligence that these men have based themselves in Dunkerque but may travel to Calais or another port in the near future. We need to ensure that a message reaches our man in England as soon as their plans are known. Carlisle will be on hand to assist, but his duties keep him here in France. We need you to take the information as soon as it is clear that they are on the move and deliver it to our contact. He is a Marquess with a direct line of communication to our superiors, and I am sure you will know in which circles he travels. He must be told in person and with the utmost discretion. Are you willing to fulfil this duty on behalf of the Crown?” Dujardin spoke with a gravitas that comes from authority.

Edward was unsure of his exact role, but it was clear that intelligence – espionage – was his business.

“So, if I am to understand this, my role is simply to deliver a message to an English nobleman advising him that the threat is imminent. Why would he believe me?” Edward asked cautiously. “I hardly have a sterling reputation.”

Four

Before Dujardin could respond, the door to the dining room opened, and Carlisle strolled in, closely followed by a serving girl overladen with trays of food. As Samuel Carlisle joined them, he could see from the tightness around Denham’s mouth and the shrewd concentration on Dujardin’s face, that he had interrupted an intense discussion. The Frenchman had started without him then. He was hardly surprised, Claude Dujardin was used to giving orders and seldom remembered that theirs was an alliance of equals. He sat slowly and reached for the carafe. Filling his glass, he waited until the girl had retreated from the room before speaking.

“I see you neglected to wait for my arrival, Dujardin. I hope that you have divulged only the information that Denham needs to know.” He asked quietly. Dujardin’s eyes flicked to his own before returning to study Denham once more.

“I have merely laid the foundations for our negotiation,” Dujardin spoke amiably but did not move his gaze from their guest. “Denham has raised a valid point. How will Hargreaves know that his word is to be trusted? Would you care to enlighten him?” His gaze met his sharply and held, an alternative question clearly visible in his hawk-like eyes.

“You failed to heed my advice before, Claude, but then again, you pride yourself on your ability to read people accurately, do you not?” Sam spoke in a measured tone.

Dujardin held his gaze for a moment longer then slowly nodded. “Yes, of course, you are quite correct. Please proceed.”

Sam turned to view Denham. The man was a conundrum indeed. The description he had received from his friend in England had portrayed him as a glorified dandy. More interested in preening, whoring and gambling than a reliable accomplice in the fight for peace and stability of their nation. Yet, there was something he couldn’t quite identify about the man that suggested he was not the frivolous bounder he was portrayed as. His drinking was moderate by conventional standards and apart from his odd dalliance with the occasional serving wench; he was no more debauched than any other bachelor abroad. He had received tales of deceit and deception on a grand scale, coupled with Denham’s desperate need to improve his fortunes. A man in search of wealth and consequence did not spend a year and a half in the garret of a flea-ridden boarding house. He could have flaunted his title in the better parts of the city and found himself patronage amongst the wealthy there. Neither had he turned petty criminal or cheat. Odd, Sam thought, that one such as he should be content to live simply. Sam’s instincts couldn’t entirely trust Denham while the two personas remained unreconciled, but what choice did he have? Perhaps there was more to his past behaviours than was understood?

“Your name was passed to us some time ago by our associate in England, Hargreaves, also known as the Marquess of Berwick. His name will become important to you as he will be your contact across the channel. However, Hargreaves was tasked with identifying a suitable Englishman, preferably of noble birth, that would be able to deliver instructions to him and his English colleagues in the event that things escalated here in France. Hargreaves, on the recommendation of a close acquaintance of his, considered you to be of possible use to us. Two others were more suited to the role; however, one died six months ago in an unfortunate boating accident, and the other fled the country following an embarrassing incident with the husband of his mistress. Alas, you were all that was left.” Sam smiled slightly.

“I see. So I am your last resort? The worst of what sound like an unfortunate lot, yes?” Edward replied, unaccountably miffed by their apparent low regard.

Laughing at his fit of pique, Sam continued. “Well, yes. Hargreaves made the suggestion against his own better judgement. Someone wishes you to be given the opportunity to repent for your many sins. Who knows the reason? But our options are now limited to you. So, you see, Hargreaves will be receptive to information that you provide, as it was he who ensured that our paths would cross.”

“Now, gentlemen. Let us eat. We have an early start in the morning if we are to reach Dunkerque in good time.” Dujardin smiled, content that they had reached a satisfactory conclusion to their discussions.

Edward looked from Dujardin to Carlisle. “And my fee? What am I to receive from this arrangement?”

Dujardin put down his fork and looked up once more. “You will receive a sum deposited to your account in England upon successfully completing your assignment. You will also find that the tenant that has been found for your ancestral home will be given sufficient resources to affect renovations pending your imminent return. You must agree that it is not currently a residence suitably fashioned to accommodate a child, after all.” Picking up his fork, Dujardin speared a piece of meat and began to fill his plate once more.

Edward froze for a moment. How odd that his mind swung to a small child with golden hair and blue eyes, not unlike her mothers. Ridiculous thought. They obviously spoke of the tenant’s offspring. Tenants? Who had let Denham Place? He had always assumed it would sit like a rotting pile until he was either fortunate enough to return or the place would revert to the Crown after his demise. He shook off the thought and considered the costs of renovating the property. To replace the roof alone would cost a king’s ransom. He was in no position to turn down that offer. Reservations dismissed, he nodded slowly and agreed to their terms.

Five

_London, England_

Clara Brereton sat in front of her dressing table and inspected the latest bruise to adorn her eye. Ugly and blackened, it would take several days before her powders would be sufficient to disguise the mark. Her livelihood was suffering from her unwillingness to comply with the demands of her protector - former protector, she corrected. The man was a brute. Honour was in short supply within her circles. The life of a courtesan was mercurial at best. She had seven days to vacate this townhouse and all of the comforts it provided, without even a congé for her troubles, and she had nowhere else to go. Nausea swirled in her stomach at the thought of having to begin again. A week would be enough to catch another’s eye, she was sure, but the idea was simply unpalatable. They say that a courtesan knows when it is time to leave the profession, generally before looks fade and coin runs dry. The was small comfort in the fact that at eight and twenty she was still considered a beauty. If she could not face the intimacies that were required of her, she was as good as done for anyway. It was odd to consider that only a few months ago she had been at the top of her game and perfectly content, if not happy, with her lot in life. She was a realist and understood that for her, things could be no better. However, during the summer, a chance encounter with her past had shaken her to her very core.

Staring into her looking glass, she saw not her refection but the beaches and dunes of Sanditon. The place of her original downfall, and this summer, the place of her epiphany. A picture of Edward came to mind; tall and handsome with blonde artfully mussed blonde hair. La! She thought, he tried so hard to give the impression of a rake and scoundrel, but she knew; poor Edward was nowt but a lost boy searching for adoration. Had they not been adversaries, she would have told him he’d won her heart long ago. She shook her head to clear the image. Nostalgia was for fools.

No, the epiphany had been her return to Sanditon to aid a young lady she had known nothing of. Clara had become entangled with a beast of a man, Viscount Richard Foster. She had discovered that his past had been littered with violence and abuse towards women, including the possible murder of a girl in his employ. Clara had gambled with the knowledge and threatened him with discovery unless he paid her handsomely to remain silent. Her safety had been somewhat assured as she had made it quite clear that a letter had been left with her solicitor detailing all she knew. In reality, of course, there was no solicitor, but Clara needed funds, although not for herself, and he needed her silence. It was a mutually rewarding endeavour until she had heard of his threats towards his cousin, Rose, now Countess Frogmore. Lord Henry Babington, an old acquaintance and perversely, the husband of Edward’s stepsister Esther, had made contact with her and asked for her cooperation. They had discovered her blackmail and asked for her aid to hold him to account. The temptation to rid the world of the parasite was too tempting to refuse. The housemaid, of whom he had most recently impregnated, had gained financial security for herself and her child, thanks to the monies she had extorted. The time had been right to bring the ordeal to an end.

What she had not expected was the offer she received upon agreeing to help. Violet; pain lanced her chest as she thought of her beloved child. Five years old and as beautiful as an angel. After so many years, Clara had given up hope of acknowledgement from her child’s paternal family. Her child was a by-blow after all. Edward knew, of course, but his situation was almost as dire as her own, and he was in no position to help. Babington and Esther had offered to provide a home for her daughter amongst their own family, and far away from her scandalous mother. It was the life she would have chosen for herself, and it was the last kindness she could give her child. To save her daughter, and to save other women from ruin and disgrace, she had been complicit in the eventual incarceration of Foster. He had left these shores with little hope of return. However, her actions had been selfless for the first time in her life, and it had been a revelation. She found that she liked helping others, and the novel feeling of being worthy of her place in this world had not left her. No more could she gratify the needs of adulterous and greedy men; creatures so complacent about vice and dishonour that they made a mockery of their noble titles. The downside, of course, being that a mistress who refuses to entertain the urges of the man who keeps her does not stay a mistress for long. Clara chuckled to herself. Conscience was going to make a pauper out of her.

A knock sounded at her bedchamber door, and she bid the maid enter. A note had arrived, and Clara considered it with suspicion. It was franked with the crest she recognised. How odd that she had only moments ago been thinking of the writer. Slicing the letter open to reveal a delicate feminine hand, she began to read.

_Dear Miss Brereton_

_Forgive the liberties I take in writing to you without the benefit of an introduction. However, I feel that everything that you have done to aid me in the past is sufficient excuse for not adhering to the usual protocols._

_You will, I am sure, remember my sister Louisa Downing. It is upon her bidding that I write to you to request your presence at the happy occasion of her nuptials. The event has been unavoidably postponed twice and is finally set for Thursday next. Louisa is to be joined in matrimony to Jack Hargreaves, Marquess of Berwick and we are all overjoyed by the match. The gathering will be small, with close family and friends only. It would be our pleasure to open our home to you here at Wentworth for the duration of the festivities._

_I am also charged with informing you that a mutual friend will be in attendance and intends to bring her entire family for an extended stay. Lady Babington wishes me to convey her wish that you may join the party as the spirits of a family member would be much improved by the renewal of your acquaintance._

_I sincerely hope that you will be able to attend._

_With kindest regards_

_Rose, Countess Frogmore_

_Wentworth, Berkshire_

Six

_Wentworth, Berkshire_

Clara regarded the grand Palladian mansion in the distance as her carriage moved steadily along the tree-lined drive. Wentworth was impressive indeed. It was still hard to fathom that the perpetually foxed Mr Crowe she had been acquainted with years before, was now sober, married and an Earl! How the mighty fall, she thought with a grin. Crowe had been the last man she had ever expected to thrive amongst the comforts of domesticity and responsibility.

As the carriage began to slow, Clara’s heart started a frenetic beat as nerves and anticipation swirled within her. It had been several months since she had made the heart-wrenching decision to send Violet to stay with her aunt. Violet’s weekly letters had arrived as promised, and she had sensed a growing confusion in her child. At almost six years old, she was a confident and precocious little girl with an open and curious nature. Yet, the most recent of her childlike communications had revealed a decided change in tone. She no longer asked when she would come home. Her usually colourful descriptions of the fun she was having with her new cousins, had become less animated and more rout. Clara had considered this change a lessening of her reliance and regard for her mother, as her new family steadily filled the empty place in her young heart. The thought had pained her even as she realised it was what she had expected. However, the note that she had received from Lady Frogmore had hinted at some concern, and now she began to wonder if the enforced separation was leading to consequences more severe than Violet’s low spirits and perfunctory letters.

Stepping down on to the gravelled driveway, Clara was welcomed by Lady Frogmore and Louisa Downing. It was a novel experience indeed to be embraced and greeted so warmly by members of polite society to whom she was generally regarded as a pariah. For once, her returning smile was not false, and her eyes misted at the kindness so long absent in her life.

“I was so happy to receive your invitation,” Clara spoke earnestly. “It is a pleasure to be here.”

Louisa, linking her arm with Clara’s, drew her up the sweeping steps to the front entrance. A kindly-looking butler waited at the door to admit them, and as they moved inside, Clara heard a sound that stopped her in her tracks. An excited voice grew louder until its owner became visible at the top of the staircase. Clara gasped as emotions, clogged her throat and stole her breath.

“Aunt Esther … look! It’s Mama!” Violet raced down the flight of stairs and straight into her mother’s embrace.

“Gracious, Violet, let your poor Mama have some air.” Laughed Esther, descending the stairs at a more dignified pace. “Clara. I’m glad you were able to join us. There is much catching up to do.”

She was given a short while to freshen up after her journey, and she used the time to compose herself after the emotional reunion with her daughter. Once Violet was assured that her Mama was indeed staying, she had run off to join her young cousins. Clara was overwhelmed both by the kindness of her hosts, and the apparent willingness of Esther to put their differences to one side. She was also pleased and relieved that her hosts had not commented upon the inordinate amount of luggage that had accompanied her for what was, in fact, only a week’s stay. Clara still had no idea where she would be going at the end of this trip, but that was a worry for another day.

A short time later, a knock sounded at the door of Clara’s chamber. Opening the door, she was unsurprised to find Esther waiting to be admitted.

“I hope you don’t find my seeking you out intrusive,” began Esther. “I hoped you would accept Rose’s invitation. I thought it necessary for us to speak in person so that I may gauge how best to proceed.” Although not smiling, Esther’s face displayed a kindness that Clara had not expected.

Clara motioned to the arrangement of chairs set before the fireplace. “I will own that it is a delicate situation, My Lady, I appreciate everything you have done for my child.”

Esther studied her carefully. “Esther, please. Before we proceed, I must ask you what plans you have for the future.” Looking around the room and noting the vast amounts of trunks, valises and hat boxes, Esther turned her gaze back upon Clara; a question clearly hanging in the air.

“I have recently decided that a simpler life is more to my taste,” Clara replied warily. “My life amongst the demimonde has reached a natural conclusion. I am not yet sure what my plans entail, but I shall not be returning to London.”

Esther nodded slowly. “Have you made this decision with Violet in mind, or is this purely for your own sake?”

Clara almost laughed. Esther was still as forthright as she had ever been; always one to get straight to the heart of the matter. “My decision was expeditious, and I have yet to formulate any plans, but I hope, in future, to live a life that will no longer bring shame upon my daughter.”

“It is as I thought.” Said Esther quietly. “I’m glad. You once told me that you were never my enemy. I was so blinded by rage and betrayal, that I did not appreciate the truth in your words. I would like you to know that, despite what occurred in our past, I am no enemy to you either.”

Clara was surprised by Esther’s candour. She had hurt Esther, immeasurably so. They had both loved the same man and had both lost him regardless. Clara had acted shamelessly, and although the deception she had perpetrated with Edward as her accomplice, was unforgivable, she had never planned her actions to cause real pain. It had mostly been about survival, and her aunt’s potential inheritance had been a temptation that she had been unable to resist. Esther’s relationship with Edward had been a revelation and a concern. Clara knew full well that it was based on manipulation on Edwards part and dependence on Esther’s. He was a cad to have abused Esther so, and she, having suffered at the hands of men all her life, should have realised it sooner.

Esther stood then. “I hope we have cleared the air between us. We have other matters to discuss, but they can wait until the festivities are over.” She smiled briefly. “I would like you to know that having Violet stay with us has been a joy. She loves you very much, you know, and misses you greatly.” Turning, she made her way from the room.

Clara watched her go and the knot that had formed in her chest finally released. If Esther could move forward with forgiveness, perhaps she would one day be ready to forgive herself.

Seven

_Dunkerque, France_

Edward looked around the tavern casually, although inside he felt very far from calm. Carlisle was sat opposite him staring morosely into his glass of brandy, a cap pulled low over his eyes. They had positioned themselves in a corner booth that was cloaked in shadow yet close enough to the main door to monitor who came and who departed. This was, in fact, the seventh night in a row that they had made the pilgrimage from their lodgings to this dockside inn. Each evening they had been hopeful of spotting their quarry and every time they had returned to their rooms having failed to detect a single Englishman.

Edward sensed the change in his companion. Carlisle stiffened and raised his gaze slightly to a group of newly arrived dockworkers. Except, now that Edward had the chance to follow his gaze, he realised there was something off about them. Their clothing, although shabby and worn, was scrupulously clean, and they each lacked the cragginess of face one recognised as belonging to men who worked outside in all elements.

Sam motioned to Denham to remain silent and rose from his seat. He moved the few steps towards the bar and caught the eye of the innkeeper. “Excusez-Moi, monsieur,” he motioned with his head slightly, “Those men. Have you seen them here before? I thought I recognised one from my days aboard Napoleon’s fleet.” Sliding enough coin across the counter to purchase three bottles of the local brandy, rather than the one he had requested, making the innkeeper smiled widely.

“Ah, a military man, non?” The innkeeper winked. “You are mistaken, mon ami, you would not have encountered those particular men. Ils sont Anglais, though they try hard to disguise the fact.” Handing over a bottle of the amber spirit, he was about to move away when Sam tried once more.

“Vous en êtes sûr, monsieur? English? Have they been here long? Do you know where they are staying?” he asked in a low voice.

“Alors, you ask a lot of questions, mon ami. What business do you have with these men?” The innkeeper’s smile thinned as he regarded Sam shrewdly. “I will have no trouble, monsieur.”

Sam slipped a note across the counter to join the coins and smiled affably. “Trouble? No, there will be no trouble. I would appreciate a few details, is all. As I said, I believe I may be acquainted with one of those men.”

“Bien, good.” Slipping the money into his apron pocket, he leaned over the bar and whispered, “They ‘ave been in and out for three weeks. Each time they come together. I heard one of them say that they were staying at the auberge down by the Bureau du port. They come; they go. They talk, they scribble notes and then they are gone. C'est tout.” Moving back, he turned and strolled to the other end of the bar and Sam allowed him to go.

As he reached the booth where he had left Denham, he was alarmed to find him gone. “Bloody, blazing hell.” Looking around, he noticed that Sir Edward had wandered closer to the group of Englishmen and was chatting amiably with one of their numbers. Growling under his breath, Sam regarded him for a moment before sitting. If the blasted idiot gave them away now, they would either end up with throats cut or an entirely compromised mission. Sam was not sure which would be preferable at this moment. “Bloody amateurs.”

Edward was well aware of his scowling companion. He smirked as he could almost make out the curses Carlisle was muttering under his breath. He had taken the initiative, in what had become an exceptionally tedious endeavour. Who knew there was so much waiting and watching involved in espionage?

Catching the eye of one of the men, he waved a hand in greeting. “Fred? Is that you, Fred? What in blazes are you doing here in France? “ Edward grinned jovially.

“Pardon, me sir, but you have mistaken me for someone else.” The man, slightly built but tall, sputtered. His eyes darted to his friends who wore expressions of alarm.

Edward realised that the men’s efforts to remain indistinguishable from the inn’s usual clientele had been thwarted by their friend who had, with one response, given away the fact that they were indisputably English.

“I humbly beg your pardon. When away from home, it’s possible to see familiar faces everywhere, don’t you find?” Edward replied, ignoring the scowls that were turned upon him.

“What is an English gentleman like you doing in these parts?” asked a thicker set man from further along the table. His accent was from one of the regions; Birmingham, perhaps.

“Ah, I had a spot of trouble back home. Thought I’d cool my heels in France for a time. I miss the ale though. The local bière is quite vile, is it not?” Edward pulled up a seat and grinned.

There was a murmur of ayes from the table, as every Englishman, even those immersed in underhand activities had opinions on beer, it seemed.

“And you good folk; are you homeward bound?” Edward asked with feigned interest. “I am very much looking forward to setting foot on English soil once more. I need a decent pint and a good steak pudding, and then I will think about finding a new position. My last employers and I didn’t see eye to eye.” He was mastering this dissembling lark, he thought and enjoying playing the role of a weary traveller.

“We sail for home in a few days, don’t we lads? I’m looking forward to a pint m’self …ouch! What was that for Jimmy?” The lanky man he had mistaken for ‘Fred’ spoke again before apparently being kicked in the shin.

“That’s grand. Perhaps we will sail together, gents? I must be getting back to my companion now. Safe travels, or as they say in these parts, bon voyage!” Edward stood and bid the men farewell before they grew overly suspicious.

As he walked away, he heard one of the men whisper, “What you say that for, Archie? You could have blown everything, you bloody eejit!” Smiling, Edward returned to the table where he had left Carlisle. His face was set in stone; only the vein pulsing on his temple gave away his anger.

Edward smirked, as his companion knocked back his drink and stood. His gaze speared Edwards, and no further words were required for him to comprehend the fact that they were leaving.

As they made their way back along the docks in the direction of their boarding house, Sam was aware of two things: firstly, Edward Denham was relishing his temporary role of spy but was as discrete as a whore in a convent. He was now entirely memorable to the reformists, meaning covert observation was now impossible. Secondly, they had attracted unwanted attention tonight and were now being followed. Being skilled in the art of concealing oneself was a fundamental skill in his line of employment, but it was not a simple task with a civilian in tow.

Cutting sharply down a side passageway, he managed to grab Denham’s arm as he passed. It was dark and dingy but gave them adequate cover to wait and observe. Would their assailant continue walking, or would he be brazen enough to keep up the pursuit? Thankfully, Denham realised that something was amiss and remained silent as they could clearly detect heavy footsteps approaching. The footfalls faltered slightly at the neck of the alleyway and then began again; the sound drifting away until they were once more stood in silence.

After a few minutes, they tentatively made their way back to their lodgings and let themselves inside. There had been nothing more to suggest they were being tracked or observed, but Sam was not willing to take any chances. “Pack your belongings, Denham. Your little stunt tonight nearly saw our cover blown,” he ordered, frustration and displeasure evident in every syllable.

Edward regarded him with a grin, “We got away undetected. We have nothing to worry about, surely.”

“Worry about? Ha! You see, this is what happens when the powers that be assign me to babysit an amateur.” Sam muttered to himself. He turned to Denham and asked, “What possessed you to engage the reformists in conversation? It was obvious that they were trying to blend into their surroundings. You have identified them as English, and they will now know that it’s only a matter of time before they become of interest to the authorities, forcing them to move their activities underground.” 

“Not so. They won’t have time.” Exclaimed Edward in response, bristling at Sam’s tone.

“Wait. What do you mean ‘they won’t have time?’” Sam demanded.

“Well, if you hadn’t been so blasted foul-tempered, I would have told you sooner. The thin chap I spoke with, Archie was his name, commented that they were heading back to England in the next few days, although his friend Jimmy wasn’t pleased that he let that slip, I can tell you. I’m sure it was he that followed us down by the docks.” Edward explained in a rush.

Sam stood for a moment, thinking. He walked to the armoire and opened the door to reveal his valise and satchel. Taking out some papers he had stowed there, he quickly scanned the contents. “Archibald Denning, late of Lambeth.” He continued studying the list of names until he saw the next possibility, “Jimmy Jenkins, Coventry.” He regarded Edward shrewdly. “If these are the same men, they are known to the Home Office for their seditious activity. They would not risk stepping foot on English soil if their plans were not well advanced.”

Edward nodded. “So what is to be done? Am I for England on the morning tide?”

Sam paced the chamber, thinking. He may never get another opportunity to discover the extent of their plans. “No.” He began, “Not immediately. Another day won’t hurt. I too had a conversation this evening with the innkeeper. For a little coin, he was willing to tell me where they were staying. I believe it may be possible to gain access to their rooms to conduct a search. It will all come down to timing.” He turned and looked at Edward, “And good luck.”

Eight

_Wentworth, Berkshire_

The last few days had been a delightful respite from Clara’s woes. Spending time with Violet had been a joy she would cherish. Before her eyes, her daughter once more flourished and became the spirited and happy child she remembered. Brushing away the worries she had arrived with, she was gladdened to find no obvious signs of distress. Esther had proven herself to be a kind and compassionate mother to her own children and this appeared to naturally extend to her niece.

Their party had increased to include some other familiar faces. Mr Sidney Parker and his wife, Charlotte, had joined the festivities and, once again, Clara was astonished by the lack of reproach or condemnation for past misbehaviours. Charlotte had always been a sweet girl with an open heart and kindness of spirit that drew people to her like shelter on a stormy night. No longer a girl, Charlotte had nevertheless retained her kindness and warmth. Clara had once hoped they may become friends, but fate had intervened.

Mr Sidney Parker, the once taciturn and aloof man she had been acquainted with briefly in Sanditon, had surprised her greatly. Now, his countenance seemed as open as his wife’s, and his smiles, so rarely seen in the past, were immediate and genuine. Love, she thought wistfully, had the power to soften the hardest of hearts.

Louisa and her sister, Rose, had been kind and welcoming, as had Crowe. She smiled to herself; recalling his reaction when addressed as ‘My Lord’, he had shuddered and insisted that, to his friends, he would always be Crowe. Lord Berwick, or Hargreaves, as he preferred to be known, was another who held no airs nor consequence. A startling contradiction to the lords and gentlemen she had encountered in London. Louisa had explained that she and her betrothed had had a somewhat unconventional start to their courtship. Having traversed some rocky ground, including two abandoned engagements, they had finally found their way back to each other and into a deep and abiding love. Three times a charm, Clara thought. Was she envious of her new friend’s happiness? Perhaps a little part of her wished her life had taken a different path. There had only been one man to whom she would have consented to wed, and that ship had sailed long ago.

The wedding took place in the small chapel in the grounds of Wentworth. It was a beautiful and joyous ceremony; perfect in its simplicity. Louisa, radiant in a gown of the palest pink, glowed as she walked down the aisle towards her Marquess. There was much emotion in the voices of the bride and groom as they exchanged their vows. As the ceremony was concluded, only their small party and a few of Wentworth’s servants were there to witness the groom sweep his bride off of her feet and kiss her senseless. Much to the general amusement of all.

The wedding breakfast took place in the main house and once concluded, the bride and groom departed for their wedding trip. Before leaving, Louisa explained that they planned to travel to London before heading north to the principal estate in Berwick-upon-Tweed for a few weeks. Returning south once more, in readiness for Rose’s confinement. Clara wished them every happiness and promised to write.

Watching them go, Clara found herself unaccountably sad. The day was drawing near when she would need to leave this place, and her daughter, once more.

“Clara, are you well?” Esther spoke gently, Charlotte beside her.

“Why, yes. I always find weddings emotional. It was quite lovely.” She replied with feigned brightness.

“Would you spare us a few moments of your time? Babington is waiting for us in Crowe’s study.” Esther took her arm and steered her from the drawing room.

Confused, Clara did as she was bid but felt a growing unease. Perhaps, now the bride had departed, the hospitality offered would cease too.

As they walked along a quiet corridor, they found the door to the study open. Clara looked around the room as they entered. It was decorated in deep reds and bore the stamp of generations of Frogmore men, she surmised. Babington and Sidney Parker stood as they entered and ushered them forward to sit.

“Clara. I hope you are well?” Babington began. “There is no need for you to look so worried, m’dear. Nothing is wrong.”

Clara felt some of the tension release from her posture. “I’m glad to hear it. What can I do for you, My Lord?”

“Well, you see, shortly after you arrived, Esther brought to our attention the predicament you find yourself in.” Babington looked at his wife, who smiled in encouragement.

Clara caught the eye of Charlotte and then Esther and tried to decipher their expressions. Not pity exactly, more concern. She turned back to Babington and replied, “I see.”

“Please don’t be alarmed. Between us, we believe we may be able to offer a solution to your problems.” Babington smiled, “As you will be aware, Sir Edward Denham left these shores several years ago, and his return is as yet uncertain. In the meantime, Denham Place has been empty and allowed to fall into disrepair.”

Clara, shocked, could only stare as the outline of their solution became apparent. “Denham Place?” she stammered. Her eyes shot once more to Esther’s in alarm. Denham Place meant returning to Sanditon. Impossible.

Esther, sensing her unease, continued. “My brother, as you know, inherited a title and a shell of a once-grand house. Without the funds to see to its upkeep, the place became almost uninhabitable. Since his exile to the continent, the responsibility for the property fell to our family. Our Aunt point blank refuses to lay out a single penny for its restoration and so, by default, Babington and I have been trying to see to its upkeep. However, we have a growing family and our own estates to manage. We were about to seek a tenant for the property, but when you and I spoke, I realised that the key to two of our concerns could be met with one simple solution. You.”

Clara shook herself mentally, “You would have me as a tenant for Denham Place even after everything that has gone before us? And what of my aunt? Surely she would raise strenuous objections to my residing there?”

“Leave aunt to me, Clara. The old dragon has mellowed with the years and will be made to see reason. I won’t promise that you’ll receive an invitation to afternoon tea, but I will ensure that she gives you no trouble.” Esther spoke resolutely.

“I have very little funds. How am I to pay the lease on the property?” Clara pleaded.

“That’s the rub.” Babington interjected, “The offer is not without conditions. In exchange for your residence there, we will need you to manage the renovations on our behalf.” He smiled kindly, “Think of yourself as being more a kind of caretaker than a tenant if it is easier to reconcile. You have managed a household before, I assume?” At her nod, Babington continued. “Esther believes that you are well equipped to take on these responsibilities. There is a small staff retained at Denham who will be able to assist. What do you say?”

“May I add?” Sidney spoke for the first time. “Charlotte and I too have spoken and wish you to know that, should you return to Sanditon, you will not be alone. You have friends there who are willing to aid you. A difficult or scandalous past should not predetermine your future. You will receive no judgment, only friendship from us, should you choose to accept it.”

Clara was alarmed to find her eyes stinging with moisture. She who was too pragmatic to weep over misfortune found that kindness was her Achilles heel. She took a deep breath. “You mentioned two concerns?”

Esther nodded. “These past few months have been a joy. Getting to know my niece has been a gift that I never expected to receive. However, as the duration of Violet’s stay lengthened, we saw a change in her. The happy girl who had come to stay began to vanish before our eyes, replaced by confusion and despondency. When we were finally able to get to the bottom of her troubles, the answer was simple; she missed her mother and didn’t understand why you had sent her away. We were deeply worried, and I almost wrote to you several times to express my concerns. We thought perhaps a little time would restore her spirits, but nothing worked. So, when Rose mentioned to me that Louisa had hoped to invite you to her wedding, I grasped the chance to see what could be done.” Esther smiled gently and handed Clara a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that she hadn’t realised had fallen. “When she saw you again, it was as if someone had opened the curtains in a darkened room. Light returned to her eyes, and her world was righted once more. If you agree to our offer, we would very much like you to make a home for yourself and Violet there. Together.”

Nine

_Dunkerque, France_

More waiting. Edward was huddled behind a consignment of cargo; barrels and crates piled high and covered with oilskin. Last night, this had seemed an excellent idea – await the departure of the men, steel into their rooms and hunt down anything that may help them identify the nature of their threat. However, here, under the cloak of darkness; a cold wind whipping his face and numbing his fingers, he scoffed at his earlier enthusiasm. Carlisle was concealed a few feet away, standing as silent as a wraith. Edward marvelled at the level of patience needed for this line of work and the discipline required to achieve it. Shuffling slightly to alleviate the stiffness in his joints, Edward froze as a shaft of light penetrated the dark night. He could just make out the shadowed figures of several men as they made their way out of the building ahead. A voice carried on the air that he recognised instantly as belonging to the talkative Archie. Edward waited until they had passed before motioning to Carlisle that these were indeed their quarry.

Carlisle inched closer, keeping to the shadows. “I counted four men. Do you recall how many you saw last evening?” He asked in a whisper.

“I spoke to two of them, but there were four others … I think.” Edward spoke as the door to the Auberge opened once more. Another two men exited the inn and strolled in the same direction as the others.

“So, all accounted for … probably.” Carlisle cursed. “Let’s hope you’re right. We will have to take our chances.”

The Auberge Du Mar was a quiet inn and seemed to be respectable enough. Leaving the shadowy cover of the dockside, they stealthily made their way to the whitewashed building which boasted sash windows and a canopied entrance. There was no sound of inhabitants; the building stood eerily silent. Sam slowly turned the handle to the front door, and as it opened soundlessly, he cautiously looked inside. Noting the empty entrance hall, he spotted a wooden desk he assumed was used by the inn’s proprietor. Motioning to Edward to follow, he carefully made his way across the space and spotted a ledger that had been left open on the side. Behind the desk, he saw a row of seven hooks designed to hold room keys. All but one were missing. He quickly scanned the open pages of the ledger and could see that all rooms had been taken, although one man appeared to have departed earlier that day. So, he mused, all of their assailants were indeed accounted for. That would make things simpler, provided the innkeeper didn’t catch them, of course.

Moving to the staircase, Edward close on his heels, he made his way up to the next level. Sam quickly scanned the room numbers and moved along until he arrived at the fourth door. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his trusted lock pick and made quick work of the door.

“Why this room?” Whispered Edward.

Sam motioned for him to be silent before opening the door to what seemed, in the gloom, to be a modest bedchamber. Under his breath, he instructed Edward to guard the door and alert him to any sounds. “The ledger: this room was assigned to Denning. I thought it prudent to start the search here. If we find nothing, Jenkins is just next door.” He explained quietly.

Sam systematically searched the room and contents and found nothing to suggest the occupant was anything other than a common traveller. With one last look around, he motioned for Edward to open the door. They made their way to Jenkin’s room, and he began his search again.

Starting with the sideboard and bedside table, once more it seemed as though there was nothing to be found, but Sam was nothing if not meticulous in his search. He finally moved to the armoire and began to work his way through the contents of an old battered valise that had been stored there. His hand caught on the bindings of a book of some sort, and as Sam pulled it out of the bag, papers kept loosely between the leaves of what appeared to be a journal, spilt out onto the floor. Carefully lighting the small stub of a candle he carried for jobs such as these, he scanned the documents to find they were bills of sale from several merchants, including a number from black powder manufacturers. Relieved to have found something, he gathered the journal and papers and snubbed out the candle, tucking the documents into the pocket of his greatcoat, he was just about to instruct Edward to leave the room when they both heard the sound of voices coming from downstairs.

“Ah, monsieur, I hope you have had a pleasant evening. Please let me know if there is anything else you need. Bon Nuit.” An obsequious voice sounded through the halls.

“Merci, Madam. All is grand, thank you. Good night,” came the response spoken in a rough midlands’ dialect.

“Blast!” Exclaimed Edward. “I know that voice – it’s Jenkins! We need to get out of here now.” He looked around the room in alarm.

Carlisle, still outwardly calm, reached for the door and opened it a fraction. He could hear the man’s heavy footfalls heading towards the staircase, and quietly closed the door once more. He surveyed the room and made for the sash window. Opening it as quietly as he could manage, he quickly scanned the terrain below, he urgently beckoned Edward, “Out. Now!”

Rushing forward, Edward was half out the window before he noted the drop of about ten foot onto what, he presumed, was the roof of an outhouse. As the sounds grew louder in the hallway, he let go and landed in a heap. He moved himself just in time as Carlisle followed in short order. They quickly lowered themselves from the roof to the ground and set off at a run. Risking a final look behind them, they noted a dark thickset figure framed by the window they had just moments ago escaped from. He stood motionless; silently watching their retreat.

“That was a close call!” Gasped Edward as they ran through the streets.

“Too close. Our cover is well and truly blown. The reformists now know they have been discovered and that means we must leave here immediately.” Carlisle replied gravely.

Ten

_Denham Place, Sanditon_

Well, thought Clara, never in her wildest imaginings had she envisaged herself as mistress of Denham Place, even temporarily. Her eyes scrutinised every stone and facet of the gothic monstrosity. She noted the signs of neglect in every glance from peeling paintwork to broken roof tiles scattered on the ground. A shiver danced its way down her spine as she took in the unkempt gardens and the weed-stricken driveway. Never one to be overly enamoured by the sensational writings of Mrs Radcliffe and her ilk; she nevertheless felt sure that this place could easily be considered equal in menace and mystery to the fictitious castle of Udolpho.

“Hmm, shall we see what miseries await us inside?” Her companion and one-time occupant of Denham Place, Esther, spoke sardonically.

Clara rolled her eyes and quirked a grin. “When you mentioned you had been too busy to see to the upkeep of Denham, I will own that you were nothing if not honest.”

Esther laughed and led the way into her former home.

They were met in the foyer by a harried-looking housekeeper. “Oh, My Lady! ‘Tis good, it is, to see you again. I’ve seen to the fires in the main rooms and Maisy has the pot on for tea.”

“Clara, may I present to you the only thing of worth still remaining at Denham, Mrs Price, our long-suffering housekeeper. Mrs Price, Miss Brereton here shall be residing at Denham Place, along with her daughter, who will join us later, as our very special guest.” Esther pierced her housekeeper with a look that emphasised Clara’s status as ‘special’.

“Good day to you, Mrs Price. I am hoping you and I shall rub along well together. My daughter and I shall be living quietly here at Denham Place.” Clara held the housekeeper's gaze, “It is my intention to aid in the restoration of the house and to do so out of the eyes of society.” She hoped her message conveyed the reassurance that a quiet, secluded lifestyle was her intent, no matter the gossip that would surely follow.

“Of course, Miss Brereton. You are most welcome.” Mrs Price’s eyes flicked to Esther’s for a moment before returning to Clara’s without any trace of judgement or disapproval.

A few minutes later, Esther and Clara were ensconced in the sitting room with a tea tray and a roaring fire. Looking around, Clara saw evidence of neglect, but curiously the sight made her feel more comfortable than the opulence and perfection of Wentworth. The room held a hypnotic warmth that did not emanate from the fire; it was an odd feeling; as if she had been wrapped in a comfortable old blanket. Now she was here, in this strange run-down house, so desperately in need of care and attention, she felt that at last, she had finally come home.

“Edward loved this room,” Esther noted the surprise on Clara’s face at the mention of her erstwhile stepsibling. Memories of the unhealthy dependency she had felt for him were never far from her mind when in this house. “There was little that Edward loved more than Denham Place, myself included. It took me an age to realise that what we shared was not love but a desire to belong; to somewhere and to someone.” She paused. With everything that had passed between them and the rivalry they had once so bitterly shared, it was strange that, with the exception of her husband, Clara should be the one person with whom she felt most comfortable talking to.

“Edward and I endured a turbulent childhood. Edward was the apple of his mother’s eye and was atrociously spoilt. His mother passed away in childbirth when he was all but eight years old. His father had been a brute and a philanderer and didn’t give a fig for the child that was left desolate by his mother’s loss. When his father was finally reminded of his responsibilities as heir to the Denham title, his solution was to remarry, and he chose my mother. My mother was recently widowed when she met Edward’s father; I was her only child and I, along with her fortune, were warmly welcomed … for a time, at least. Mother was a flighty creature and lived for society. I was six when I arrived here, and as our parents dazzled and socialised in London, Edward and I had only ourselves for company. By the time we were old enough to realise our closeness was not the usual way of things, it was so much a part of who we had become. Edwards father was a master at manipulation but was heavy-handed and cruel. His son learnt quickly that he could tempt someone more easily with honey than with vinegar.

Our parents died when the curricle they were travelling in overturned. We knew not that the sum of my mother’s fortune, which was the entirety of my inheritance, had been frittered and gambled away. We lived off the charity of our neighbours and a few old retainers who had stayed with us throughout. Edward, for whom everything materially had come so easily, never forgot the shame of begging for our bread and swore that he would never live that way again.

When Sir Harry Denham passed, Edward inherited his uncle’s baronetcy, and we thought our prayers had been answered. That’s when we realised that all of his wealth had belonged to his widow, our aunt. So, there we were, in possession of the entailed estate, but once again with no coin to alleviate our penury. Lady Denham eventually condescended to allot a stipend upon us, but it was barely more than pin money. I don’t blame her, you understand, we weren’t her blood relations, and she assumed Edward was cut from the same cloth as his papa. Never once did she consider that he was a victim of circumstance and his upbringing. But Edward took things too far, as I’m sure you’re all too aware. He set out to deceive our aunt, and after years of being under his spell, he betrayed my trust so completely that I am not yet certain I can ever forgive his actions, yet I do understand the desperation that drove him. Perhaps one day he will convince me of his remorse, but we will have to wait and see.”

Clara sensed that Esther’s unburdening of memories was not an act of spontaneous revelation but was, in fact, an opportunity for Clara herself to open up. Was this how friends behaved – sharing their uncomfortable truths and revealing themselves so they and their behaviours could be understood by others? This was the start of a new chapter for Clara, and in the spirit of reconciliation and blossoming friendship, she knew it was the right time to finally let someone in.

“My past was not without its trials.” She began tentatively. “My father is the youngest son of a large family; impoverished but of respectable birth. He met my mother soon after he reached his majority and was immediately besotted. The match was frowned upon by both families, who foretold the hardship that would befall the young couple, should they marry.”

Clara took a deep breath before continuing. “My mother had no dowry, you see, and soon the first child arrived, then the next. Funds ran dry, and father was forced to find employment. My mother’s life turned from genteel poverty to drudgery, and as each of my siblings were born unto the world, her lot in life became more difficult. When I was fourteen years old, my mother’s brother came to live with us. He paid board and lodgings and helped to keep a roof over our heads. My father, a clerk to a local solicitor, worked long hours and was seldom at home. My mother once told me that her biggest regret had been to marry for love and that such a thing was pure folly.

“With a family of eight children, my mother spared little time for all but her daily chores and certainly none for the supervision of her oldest offspring.” Clara closed her eyes tightly as memories flooded her. “She failed to notice that her brother, often in his cups, had taken a special interest in her eldest daughter. A girl starved of adult affection may be tempted to sit on her uncle’s knee and be flattered and coddled. On the cusp of womanhood, she might have known that his touch was not that of a relation, had her mother been around to explain such things. As he stole quiet moments in darkened hallways, in the larder or in the barn where we kept our animals, becoming more insistent until one day he took with force what I tried so hard to deny him. He told me that it was my duty to keep him happy, and it was our secret. Each time the agony would be worse than the time before until there was nothing left of the innocent girl I had once been; only pain.” Wiping a tear from her cheek, she opened her eyes to see that Esther had left her seat and was knelt before her, sadness evident in her eyes.

“Don’t pity me. It was a lifetime ago. We deal with the hand that life gives us, and my uncle found his deserved end when he stumbled in front of a drayman’s cart. I learnt sooner than most, is all, that life is about taking opportunities when they present themselves. Had I not been rushing past the dray in such a panic that day, my uncle may not have given chase and slipped just as the horse shied and spooked. Had he not been foxed, he may have caught himself before he ended up beneath the horse’s hooves. Opportunities.” Clara winked. “One must take them when they present themselves.”

“Oh, Clara! I do not pity you.” Esther reached for her hand in a show of compassion. “I applaud your strength. To have endured such torment and survived is a testament to you.”

“Oh, hush. I did what I had to do.” Clara felt suddenly lighter. “The experience taught me much and most of all, to be careful who I give my affections to. Not all men are as they seem.”

“Edward?” Esther asked carefully.

“No, not Edward,” Clara replied softly, meeting Esther’s worried green eyes. “To Edward, my affection was given freely and wholeheartedly, though the poor man never realised.”

“Never realised you were in love with him?” Esther clarified. “Now that I finally have experience of that emotion, it is as clear as day.” She chuckled. “That much animosity can only come from one place, and he is a fool not to have recognised it.”

“Alas, Edward never saw me as more than a means to an end, and rightly so, he and I have much to be ashamed of. The hurt we caused both you and our aunt. We behaved abominably, and I’m truly sorry for that.” Clara smiled wickedly. “But tell me, did Lady Denham ever replace that drawing room floor?”

Eleven

_En route to Folkestone_

The channel crossing had gone smoothly enough, thought Edward. He had parted ways with Carlisle at the docks in Dunkerque as they met the morning tide. A space on a merchant vessel that had been ready to depart was procured, and he was summarily dispatched.

Last evening had been a close call. They had made it back to their lodgings and had packed as speedily as they could manage. The ledger that Carlisle had found had been quickly scanned and the information contained therein, when pieced together with the bills of sale, had painted a damning picture. The little season was shortly to commence, and the ton were filing back into the capital in time for the opening of parliament. Influential figures would begin their social rounds starting with the opening ball of the season, held by the Duke and Duchess of Richmond. Such dignitaries as Lord Liverpool and the famed hero of Waterloo, the Duke of Wellington regularly attended these events, as did other Lords and Ladies belonging to the beau monde. The incriminating evidence they had found pointed to an attack of some sort, designed to cause maximum disruption to the government.

Carlisle had entrusted the ledger and the accompanying bills to Edward with the strict instruction that he make his way post-haste to England and deliver them into the hands of Hargreaves, the Marquess of Berwick. With luck, Edward hoped to learn of his whereabouts upon arrival in London. He may be persona non grata, but his title still held a little sway – he hoped. Carlisle, meanwhile, was to travel back to Lille to liaise with Dujardin.

Edward stood on deck as the ship made its slow approach into the port of Folkestone. There were a few things that didn’t add up. Where was the black powder? They knew that a large quantity of the stuff had been procured by the reformists in France. Yet, there was no evidence that they had any connections to a warehouse or similar on this side of the channel, and how would they get that amount of controlled substance through without alerting HM Customs? It was far too much to be easily concealed, and what possible reason could someone have for transporting such a quantity? Weapons manufacture seemed ever most probable. Also, Carlisle had mentioned that there had been a seventh man in the Auberge ledger. A Monsieur Roger Armitage. Not a typically continental name. The Armitage fellow had left on the same day as their search. It seemed too much of a coincidence that he had been resident at the same inn as a select group of fellow Englishmen and not be somehow connected. Whilst he tracked down his influential Marquess, it may also be worth his while to make some discreet enquiries about a man named Armitage.

The ship docked at midday, and immediately the deck became a hive of activity. Edward made his way down the gangplank and, for the first time in almost six years, stepped onto English soil. He smiled wryly to himself as he realised that there was not a single soul who knew he was here, and even if they did, they would wish him back to the continent on the very next boat.

The sights and sounds of the port of Folkestone overwhelmed but embraced its weary travellers. France had been an escape and a sanctuary, but there was no place quite like England for making a man realise his need to belong. In a pensive mood, Edward made his way to the closest inn. Here he hoped to secure passage to London. As he navigated the inn’s bustling clientele to reach the harried barkeep, he caught a snippet of conversation that gave him pause.

“The cargo? You said it’d be ‘ere by now. Wot’s the hold-up? Did Armitage say anything ‘bout a delay?” The first speaker enquired.

“It’ll land in the next week, Pratt, I told ya.” A rough, raspy voice answered impatiently. “It’ll be offloaded here and then go by riverboat down to the sheds at Wapping.”

“Well I don’t like it, that’s wot. Too much time ‘anging around. Them custom’s officers are already snooping, they is,” the first man, Pratt, replied, disgruntled.

At that moment, Edward heard the scuffing of chairs on the stone-clad floor and to prevent himself from being caught eavesdropping, he moved quickly to the bar. Glancing back, he spotted two rough-looking men making their way through the crowd to the door.

Ordering a pint of ale, Edward wandered closer to the window and looked out through the grime-streaked glass. He could still see the men in the distance, further down towards the wharf, but their demeanour was unhurried. Hmm, he thought, they won’t be going anywhere for a while. It may pay to send a message to Hargreaves and wait. Perhaps with a bit of luck, he may catch sight of the elusive cargo before it departed by riverboat. Decision made, he returned to the bar and inquired not about a carriage, but a room instead.

A short time later, Edward was settled into a small room, scratching a note to the infamous Hargreaves. Having no idea of the man’s residence, he had no option but to address the letter to the Home Office. With luck, the missive would arrive and be forwarded without delay. Once satisfied, Edward ensured the message was despatched on the mail coach which left shortly after noon, before beginning his search for Pratt and company.

Two days later, a letter arrived at the august offices of His Majesties Home Office that was indeed handled with due diligence and urgency. The Rt Hon Christopher Ellis pondered his best course of action. His superior, Jack Hargreaves, the esteemed Marquess of Berwick, currently resident at his London townhouse, could be a surly chap. He was at present enjoying the delights of his recent nuptials and Kit grimaced at the thought, as he made his way in-person to interrupt the man’s honeymoon.

Twelve

_Denham Place, Sanditon_

Clara smiled triumphantly at the sight before her. A week had passed since her arrival at Denham Place, and finally, she believed she was making progress. Each room had been inspected and notes made on repairs, mouldy old drapes had been taken down, fireplaces cleaned, and carpets beaten. The worst of the problems were found on the uppermost floor, due largely to the decaying roof timbers. Leaks had sprung in almost every corner of the servant’s quarters, which had long since been abandoned in favour of disused guest chambers. One particular leak had penetrated beyond the top level to the floor below, causing considerable problems.

True to her word, Mrs Price had been nothing but kind to Clara and had taken a particular shine to Violet, who was once more her vivacious and curious self. No gossip had reached their ears, and for that, Clara was quietly relieved. Esther had left her on the first day to visit Lady Denham before travelling back to Beecham Court, where she, Babington and their offspring were to make preparations for their trip to London and the start of the little season.

Charlotte Parker was a frequent visitor, as was her sister-in-law Mary, who was the epitome of kindness. The Parker children, along with Violet, had played for hours and seemed set to be the best of friends. Clara smiled to herself, how happy she and her daughter were in this place filled with unexpected friendship and quiet contentment.

Taking a final look around the bedchamber she had been cleaning with the help of one of the maids, she felt a welcome sense of accomplishment. It had been some time since she had been required to perform manual duties such as these, but she found that restoring Denham Place gave her purpose and was oddly cathartic.

“Martha, we’ve done a fine job here. Shall we take a break and share a pot of tea with Mrs Price?” Clara smiled at the young, sweet-faced girl.

“Right you are Miss, a cuppa would be grand.” Bobbing a shallow curtsey, Martha wasted no time exiting the room, heading for the back staircase.

Clara sighed, her body weary, and followed. Upon reaching the kitchen, she found Mrs Price had anticipated their needs and a pot of tea awaited them, along with a plate of freshly baked scones that tempted the senses with their buttery-sweet fragrance. Violet was sat at the large wooden table covered in flour and jam and had never looked happier.

As Clara and Martha enjoyed the refreshment, Mrs Price declared that a letter had arrived addressed to Clara from London. Immediately alert, Clara reached for the note and sighed with relief as she noted the Berwick seal. Tearing the letter open, she was surprised to see that the note had not been penned by Louisa, but rather, her husband.

_Miss Brereton_

_I trust you are settled into your new abode and that both you and your daughter find yourselves in possession of good health._

_After discussing the matter with Babington, it has been brought to my attention that Denham Place is in considerable disrepair. As the property is being managed on behalf of Sir Edward Denham, who is currently in my employ, I have instructed my man of business to set up the relevant accounts to ensure that the necessary works can be completed without delay. Please forward all necessary bills for the attention of C. Ellis Esq care of this address and please be assured that all funds will be dealt with promptly._

_Your Servant_

_Hargreaves_

_Marquess of Berwick etc_.

Clara read the letter before folding it and placing it in her skirt pocket. Curious. Clara had assumed that the repairs to Denham would be made by Babington; he’d certainly implied it when they spoke. How was Hargreaves acquainted with Edward; the two had never met as far as she was aware. Yet, Hargreaves had also mentioned employment. What possible occupation could link the two men? And what of Edward? Was he still on the continent? As far as she knew, no one but her had been privy to his whereabouts. She shook herself mentally, as questions swirled around her mind. Unable to make sense of the situation, Clara decided to think of it no more. Funds were assured for the more costly repairs, and that would be her focus.

Turning to Mrs Price, she enquired. “Who should I speak to regarding the repairs to Denham Place, and in particular, the roof? The weather could turn at any moment, and we need to ensure that the property is at least watertight.”

Mrs Price regarded her with some surprise. “Well, assuming there is money to pay the bills, you could ask Mr Robertson in Sanditon if they can take on some extra work? He acts as foreman on the development there, but much of the work has been completed. Perhaps he could help?”

Standing, Clara removed her apron. “Then, to Sanditon, I shall go.”

Mrs Price looked at her in surprise, “Sanditon, Miss? Are you sure you wish to make your presence known there? What of Lady Denham? She’s oft about. Mayhap, we send Martha with a message instead?”

Smiling, Clara ignored Mrs Price’s concern and, with her decision set in her mind, asked “Violet, would you like to join Mama for a walk into town. We could stop and take a walk along the beach?”

Twenty minutes later, Clara and Violet, accompanied by a less than enthusiastic Martha, made their way along the lane in the direction of Sanditon town. The smell of the sea flooded Clara’s senses and reminded her of a time long ago when she had been a respectable girl living under the patronage of her aunt, Lady Denham. Although a poor relation, her name had been awarded due respect; not causing grown men to leer nor ladies to look away in disgust. How the threat of exposure had almost paralysed her with fear. With Violet beside her, she needed to remain dignified, even in the face of disapproval. She hoped she was up to the task.

Entering the town, Clara headed to the offices of The Sanditon Development Company, as directed by Mrs Price. The streets were quiet, and the few passers-by they encountered seemed too busy with their day to note the fallen woman in their midst. As she entered the smart building, she stopped abruptly. A voice could be heard coming from one of the offices that she recognised, even after all these years.

“Thomas Parker, you are a nincompoop! How many times must I tell you that we do not need another quack in Sanditon? What has the medical profession ever done for our visitors that a daily curative of seawater and asses milk has not solved?” Lady Denham exclaimed in exasperation at the familiar and age-old argument. “No, Dr Fuchs has decided to retire, and that is his loss. We have no need of a replacement, mark my words!”

“Now, now, Lady Denham. You must see that without a Doctor, our townsfolk and visitors will be most disadvantaged.” Tom Parker sighed. “Dr Fuchs has been a committed and valued member of our community for six years. Think of the bones he has set and the children he has brought into the world without incident.”

“Children! We have a midwife to deliver offspring, what need do we have for a Doctor of Medicine? No, you mark my words, we shall increase our donkey population and then there shall be milk enough for every ailment.” Lady Denham rose from her seat and made for the door, pausing for a moment, she conceded. “Unless you locate a rich, dashing doctor who will appeal to the young ladies of Sanditon, I see no reason to go to the expense of hiring a new one.” With a raised eyebrow, she turned and exited the room.

Before Clara could move, or better yet, hide, Lady Denham was upon her. Faltering in her step, her aunt came to a halt in the hallway, eyes piercing Clara’s.

“Well, so the rumours are true.” Lady Denham spoke curtly. “When Esther informed me that you had returned to Sanditon, I did not believe her. When she said that you had taken residence at Denham Place, I was veritably shocked. That you decided to come here and bring your disgrace with you shows very little regard for my, not to mention, Sanditon’s good name.”

“Aunt. A pleasure as always.” Clara spoke derisively. “May I introduce you to your great-niece? Violet, this delightful lady is your Aunt and namesake.”

Violet speared Lady Denham with eyes so similar to her father’s that the good lady could not look away. Edward, the scoundrel, had been a disappointment and, although she would scare admit the fact to anyone, had been the most entertaining of her relations, until his perfidy had sent him to perdition, or more accurately the continent.

“It is rude to stare, Aunt. Mama says that when one is introduced, one must always be polite and smile.” Violet spoke defiantly before offering a childish curtsy and a mischievous grin.

Lady Denham let out a huff of laughter before correcting herself. “You are quite right, young lady.” She replied in her most superior voice. “It is most ill-bred of me to stare. Miss Violet, I am surprisingly pleased to meet you.”

Astonished, Clara watched her daughter breach the defences of her indomitable aunt. So surprised was she that she almost missed the remark aimed at her by the good lady herself.

“Must I repeat myself to everyone today?” Lady Denham complained. “You will visit me. Next Wednesday for tea, Clara Brereton. Bring the child. I dare say she is in desperate need of moral guidance.”

Propelled into motion, Lady Denham swept past them and out of the door without another glance.

“Yes, Aunt,” Clara added belatedly.

Stunned, she stood for a moment unable to recall what she had come here to do, so shocked by her Aunt’s invitation, was she.

Movement from the hallway brought her back to herself once more and reminded her of the purpose for her visit.

Thirteen

_Berwick House, Mount Row, Mayfair_

Jack Hargreaves, Marquess of Berwick, was the most contented soul who ever lived, he decided. Curled up beside him was the very reason for his good fortunes. Louisa, now the Marchioness of Berwick, was as beautiful as she was dear. Her smile was enough to make a grown man spout sonnets or fight battles to protect her. And she was his. The road to wedded bliss had been rocky, but at this precise moment, there was nothing that could spoil his sense of new-found contentment. Or, so he had thought.

A knock sounded at the door to the library, where he and Louisa were enjoying some time alone. His butler, Swinton, had instructions not to interrupt unless the house was on fire, so he assumed that either his loyal servant was in want of early retirement or there was indeed a crisis to avert.

As Kit was announced into their company, Jack frowned and cast a scowl of disapproval at Swinton, before standing to greet his employee.

“My most humble apologies, My Lord, but this arrived, and I fear it requires your immediate attention.” Kit handed a letter to his superior and waited.

Louisa rose from the sofa and with a smile, excused herself to allow the gentlemen to discuss their business in private. As she left the room, she cast a teasing grin at Jack that made him wish his occupation to the devil.

Frustrated, he returned his attention reluctantly to the note that he held and quickly perused the contents.

“Bloody, blasted hell. What does the man think he’s doing? He’s not trained for covert work!” He exclaimed in annoyance.

“If I may, Sir. He does sound like he knows what he’s about. Perhaps he will be able to find us a lead to follow? These reformists have been deuced difficult to track until now,” Kit offered in appeasement.

Jack thought for a moment, “Aye. Perhaps you’re right, Ellis. He’s made it this far, but he says here that he has information for me that will aid our case. He’s been working with Carlisle. Sam wouldn’t have entrusted him with vital intelligence if he did not trust the man.” Walking to the sideboard, Jack poured himself a splash of whiskey. “We have, what, two days to get to Folkestone before this shipment arrives?”

“Yes, My Lord. It will take just over a day’s travel without stops to get there on horseback. By carriage, closer to two.” Agreed Kit.

“Right.” Jack reluctantly nodded. Walking over to the bell-pull, he summoned Swinton. “Arrange to have my horse readied and tell my valet to pack a bag for several days travel. We shall be leaving within the hour.” He turned to Kit. “Can you be readied in time?”

Kit nodded. “I will swing by my lodgings and return before you know it.” He bowed and left the room.

“Goddammit!” Growled Jack. How am I going to tell Louisa? He thought.

_The outskirts of Folkestone_

A day and a half later, Jack and Kit rode into Folkestone. Tired and bad-tempered, they made their way to the inn mentioned in Denham’s letter; The Jolly Sailor. Leaving Kit to tend to their mounts, Jack strolled into the bustling establishment. Experienced at concealing his identity, he made his way to the public bar in search of the innkeeper. Roughening his voice and exaggerating his Scots brogue, he enquired about rooms. As he completed his business and purchased two mugs of ale, a man caught his attention. Tall, with blonde wavy hair, the fellow carried himself like a gentleman despite his attire. He had stood up from one of the tables and was making his way to the rear of the inn, in the direction of the stairs.

Picking up the drinks, Jack made his way carefully in the same direction as the blonde-haired fellow. Having never met Denham, all Jack had to go on was a description provided by Babington and his instinct that this was their man. As he approached the stairwell, Jack noted that the hallway was empty. He alighted the first set of stairs and turned the corner to find that Denham was stood at the door to one of the rooms.

Lifting his head as he noted the arrival of his pursuer - the same stranger that had arrested his attention just now in the common room - Edward paused for a moment before speaking. “I hear Berwick is a nice place to visit at this time of year. Are you acquainted with the place?” his voice was even and carried only enough to ensure the man heard.

“Aye, I know it well. Tends to flood in the autumn but we’ve been lucky with the rivers, so far.” The man replied in a barely discernible Scottish accent.

The public-school tones were still there but diluted. This was no traveller, thought Edward. Hedging his bets, he continued. “And Carlisle, would that be familiar too?”

After another pause, the man sighed and replied. “Denham. I got your note. This had better be worth interrupting my honeymoon for.”

Edward nodded and tipped his head towards the now open chamber, motioning the gentleman, Hargreaves at a guess, inside. 

Jack moved forward a few steps, but before he could enter the room, the sound of footfalls echoed on the stairs. Holding his breath for a moment, he waited, before exhaling as Kit rounded the corner. He inclined his head to Denham and advised, “This is Christopher Ellis, Kit, he is my associate.”

Denham continued into the room, leaving the door ajar, as Jack and Kit followed. Closing the door behind them, he offered his hand. “I am Hargreaves. Your note said that you had tracked the shipment. Is that correct?”

Denham smiled ruefully, “Straight to business then, is it.” Pulling up a wooden chair, he sat and regarded the two men. Shabby greatcoats and buckskin breeches were generic enough, but those boots hailed from Hoby’s, or he wasn’t an Englishman. “To answer your question, yes. I have some papers to give you, and I was fortunate enough to overhear a conversation on my arrival concerning a certain shipment.”

The younger man Kit, who looked no more than five and twenty at a guess, spoke for the first time. “Have you news of when it will arrive? Your note said it would be travelling down the Thames to the docks?”

“Indeed. I have been playing cards this evening with two boatmen who are expecting an unidentified shipment to dock tomorrow morning. By the time it has been offloaded and transported from the docks to the riverboat, it should be early evening. The boatmen mentioned that the goods would be delivered to a warehouse in Wapping.” Edward stood and rifled through his belongings, pulling out a journal. “Carlisle bade me put this in your hands, Hargreaves. I hope it gives you something to go on.”

A short time later, Jack had read the contents of the journal and noted the bills of sale for black powder. It was looking grim indeed. From this collection of notes he was able to piece together the outline of the scheme and at its heart was an explosion of some sort, designed to create disruption to those members of parliament who opposed the reform movement. Chiefly amongst those, was the Prime Minister and his cabinet.

It seemed diabolical that the reformists would plan to attack such a prestigious event as the opening ball of the season. The Duchess of Richmond was an exemplary hostess, and only those of the upper echelons of society could be expected to attend her event. Her husband was a prominent figure in the Tory party, and it would be disastrous if such an attack were successful.

Thanks to Carlisle and Denham, they had the bare bones of the reformist plans, but they were running out of time. The ball was to be held in just ten days, and somehow they needed to establish a link between the shipment of black powder, in industrial quantities, and the event to be held on the banks of the Thames. It was vital they followed the trail and locate the shipment before the reformist plans could be set in motion.

Fourteen

_Sanditon House, Sanditon_

A few days had passed since Clara and Violet had encountered Lady Denham in Sanditon. Today was the day that they were expected to take tea with the old dragon, an event that filled her with trepidation but also a glimmer of hope.

Violet, dressed in her smartest pinafore and bonnet, looked like an angel. Clara hoped that today, at least for a little while, she would act like one too. She smiled indulgently as they made their way across the estate, how could the progeny of Edward Denham not be spirited and mischievous. Thankfully, the stain of reputation – hers and her fathers – had yet to dampen Violet’s thirst for life.

As they walked through the woodland that separated the Denham Place lands with those of Sanditon House, memories began to play tricks with Clara’s nerves. She had spent time with Edward here, before their ruinous détente, and once, she and Esther had once shared some truths, painful though they were to recall. Despite her duplicitous behaviour, Clara had found her place in this world here, at least for a short time, before she had been justly shamed and banished.

The doors to Sanditon House opened as they arrived, and they were ushered into the drawing room. Lady Denham, if true to form, would keep them waiting before making her presence known. As Clara looked around the room, she noticed with a grin that the old dragon had indeed replaced the inlaid floor with new and, in Clara’s opinion, much improved, parquetry. The wall coverings and furnishings had been updated, giving the room a much more welcoming ambience. The pianoforte still stood in pride of place, and Clara could not resist the urge to play a few idle notes. How she missed playing.

“I will say one thing in your favour, Clara Brereton, you were one of the most talented pianists to have graced this drawing room, even if some of the other activities you participated in here were less than salubrious.” A stern voice spoke from the doorway.

Turning, Clara bit her lip to prevent herself from retorting and dipped into a modest curtsy, motioning for Violet to do the same.

As Lady Denham entered the room, it was clear that, once again, her focus had returned to Clara’s daughter. “And Miss Violet, what do you think of my home? If you are anything like your mother, you will have opinions aplenty.”

Violet grinned at her namesake and replied “I like it very much, Aunt. It’s so big, and the garden is very pretty, _and_ you have a pianoforte. I love music. Do you love music, Aunt?”

“My, my, what a chatty little thing you are. As you asked so prettily, yes, I do love music and have suffered from a lack of it over the past few years. Have you learned to play the instrument, child?” Lady Denham spoke kindly before motioning for Violet to take a seat opposite her. “Clara, play a little tune while I converse with your daughter,” she added absently.

Clara obediently did as she was bid but kept half an ear on the conversation taking place a few feet away.

While Violet chattered and answered her Great-Aunt’s questions, Clara smiled wistfully at the ease and naivety of her child. God forbid her daughter ever suffer at the hands of a man as she had done. Finishing the piece she was playing, a gentle Italian sonata, she stood and joined her daughter on the sofa. A tea tray had been brought in, and Lady Denham motioned for her to pour. It felt oddly like a return to her daily ritual, though it had been almost six years since she had last performed the duty for her aunt.

Violet had shown great enthusiasm when Lady Denham spoke of her recent addition to Sanditon House; an orangery. Not only did her gardener grow the favoured orange but had begun to cultivate pineapples with the help of a specially designed heating system that ensured the room stayed warm all year round. Of course, Violet had never seen a pineapple and was most curious to do so. Lady Denham called for her butler and asked that he show Miss Violet these new delights. Once her daughter had left the room, her aunt turned her focus upon Clara. This was the moment, she thought, where her disapproval and disdain would be conveyed.

“So, Clara Brereton, does she know of her father?” Lady Denham’s gaze pierced. “I assume Edward knows of his progeny?”

“Violet knows that her father is abroad, and that distance has kept him from her,” Clara answered simply. “As for Edward, he has known since before my confinement. He was, of course, already on the continent by then and unable to offer any assistance. Yet, I find we have managed despite his absence.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Lady Denham replied astutely. “She is a credit to you. But what of the future? Will you slip once more into the bowels of Satan?”

“Bowels of Satan, aunt? A little dramatic, don’t you think?” Clara replied, bristling. “I did what I needed to do to survive when there was no one else to help me.”

“Yes, yes. I know desperation when I see it.” Lady Denham took a sip of her tea before continuing, “Yet, you haven’t responded to my question. You brought shame upon your parents; it’s no wonder they threw you to the wolves and defamed the Brereton name by flaunting your living, immoral as it was, amongst society. You are, by very definition, a ruined woman. Do you intend to return to that life, or have you come here, to Sanditon, in an attempt to put it behind you?” 

“You seem to have made an assumption aunt, why not share it and we shall all know where we are,” Clara spoke sarcastically.

“Now don’t use that tone, it doesn’t become you.” Replied Lady Denham, “But as you ask, I believe you care about your daughter, and you know that your reputation, such as it is, will one day, harm her. I think you have come here to repair the damage that has been done and find a new path. Am I wrong?”

Clara, sighed, her defensiveness dissolving as she pondered her aunt’s words. She was done trying to defend a way of life she found abhorrent. Not unlike her last encounter with Esther, it was time for honesty. “No, you are not wrong. Everything I do and have ever done has been for Violet.”

“Well then, that’s a start.” Smiled Lady Denham, “We just have to find the right path and stick to it.”

Clara laughed at the absurdly simplistic summation of her difficulties.

“There is but one solution. Respectability comes with marriage, Clara.” Lady Denham nodded as Clara abruptly stopped laughing. “We shall have to find you a husband, leave it to me. I’m sure I can think of someone.”

Fifteen

_Folkestone_

The following morning, Kit had been dispatched to London with the journals while Edward and Jack departed the inn to await the arrival of the shipment of cargo. Only one ship was expected in port that day, and they hoped to be ready as it came into harbour. As luck would have it, they didn’t have to wait long. They had already observed the two boatmen loitering, as a vessel made its slow progress towards land.

They watched the disembarkation with interest and Denham pointed out several men that he confirmed were part of the reformist contingent. The hold of the ship was emptied, and they noted that somewhere in the region of thirty barrels were loaded onto a cart and covered with oilskin to protect the contents from the early morning drizzle.

Jack left Edward concealed in an alleyway and ventured onto the dock, alongside the laden cart. Two of the men were securing ropes around the cargo and were conversing quietly, but he heard one word, “Wapping,” as he passed by. Their suspicions had been correct.

As Jack sauntered along the dock, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Instinct was never dismissed in this game, and he knew without question that he was being followed. He turned down beside a mountain of timber crates and waited.

A few moments went by before an unkempt man dressed in an old tattered worsted jacket and breeches that had seen better days, came into sight. His hair and beard were overlong and a dingy, dirty blond colour. He had a cap pulled low, covering his eyes. The man stopped for a fraction of a second and studied his surroundings, before turning abruptly to face Jack.

“Good God, man, you’re losing your touch.” He grinned. “I recognised you immediately. You’ve been out of fieldwork too long.”

“Carlisle!” Jack exclaimed before dropping his voice to a more discreet tone. “What in blazes are you doing here? Denham said you had left for Lille?”

“Plans change. You got the papers?” Sam Carlisle moved to join Jack behind the hoard of wooden crates. “The reformists are here. I followed them from Dunkirk. Whatever they are planning will happen soon.”

“Aye, we surmised as much. Denham overheard talk of the shipment and its destination. We aim to follow its progress from here to the warehouse, which we believe is in Wapping.” Jack quickly apprised Sam before motioning to the docks, “We must make our way back. The cart is laden and will be on its way any moment.”

Carefully making their way back to join Edward, they noted the cart begin to roll off in the direction of the river. The progress would be slow. The draught horses were strong beasts, but thirty-odd barrels of powder was a considerable weight. Stopping by the inn to collect their belongings and to hire hacks, they set off some ten minutes later. They caught sight of the cart again as it rolled alongside the waterway, stopping just short of the jetty, where a flat-hulled riverboat was tethered. Concealing themselves, they watched as several of the reformists, accompanied by the boatmen, hauled the barrels onto the craft.

Within an hour, the low, lumbering vessel was underway. Keeping their distance, they watched the slow progress of the riverboat, until several hours later, they saw the first signs of industry. They peered out across the expanse of water and tracked the shipment as it made its way towards one of the jetties on the far side of the river. From his pocket, Carlisle withdrew a spyglass and tried to read the proprietor’s names painted onto the side of the nearest warehouses.

“Smith & Smith: Vintners, Arkwright Feed Merchants and ah, that looks promising.” He handed the glass to Jack, who nodded.

“Well? What is it?” asked Edward impatiently. He was bone-weary and desperate to get out of the saddle. Jack passed him the glass, and he peered at each building in turn until he came across the last one. “Armitage Pyrotechnic Displays.”

Jack turned his mount and led the way through the trees that had concealed their surveillance. “We must ride for town. There is much to do, including setting a watch on these premises as a matter of priority.”

Edward frowned. “Can you not send in the militia to seize the shipment?”

Jack shook his head. “Although it would be infinitely easier to do so, we need to catch them in the act. Currently, a manufacturer of fireworks has a legitimate reason for storing black powder. Should that powder find its way into explosives, we then have grounds to try them for crimes against the state.”

“And if we don’t stop them?” Edward inquired dubiously.

“Then parliament will fall, and it will be our heads on the block.” Replied Jack frowning as he rode on.

Sixteen

_Denham Place, Sanditon_

A week had gone by since she and Violet had taken tea with Lady Denham. Clara was both relieved by her aunt’s re-entry into her life and wary of her intent. Marriage indeed! Though her aunt had a point; a wedding would save her from much scandal, who in their right minds would consider a former courtesan and mother of an illegitimate child worthy of such consideration? No, her aunt may be set on this course, but she would soon come to realise it was futile. Besides, marriage should only be entered into if one felt affection for one’s spouse and not as a way to salvage a lost reputation, although truth be told, the latter reason was far more common in society than the first. Indeed, if every man married for love, there would be very little need for courtesans or mistresses at all.

Shaking her head ruefully at the absurdity of her thoughts, Clara continued on her way along the corridor that led to the last remaining bedchamber in need of refurbishment. She was reluctant to admit to herself that she had been nervous about this task. It was pure coincidence that she had left this one room until last.

Stopping outside the door and fumbling with the chatelaine, she finally found the correct key to unlock the master chamber. Opening the door wide, a waft of stale air greeted her. Scrunching her nose at the unpleasant musty odour, she took a tentative step inside the room.

When Edward had been forced to flee, he took only a few meagre belongings with him. Here, Clara saw evidence of his haste. Left untouched for five years or more, there was still evidence of his existence; a brocade robe thrown haphazardly across the bed, a rumpled cravat draped over the back of a chair. As she moved further into the room, a faint aroma of scent still lingered. The scent of Sandalwood had always transported her back to her time spent in Edward's arms. The one, solitary time when they had allowed themselves to revel in their mutual attraction.

Opening the partially closed curtains, Clara wrestled with the casement window until it finally allowed in a modicum of fresh, clean air. Turning, she scanned the room in an attempt to order her thoughts for the task at hand. First, she thought, she would tackle the linens.

Moving towards the ornately designed four-poster bed, she brushed her fingertips along the once luxurious coverlet. It had once been a rich, opulent burgundy, which matched her memories of Edward’s extravagance. But like time, the richness of the material had faded until only the suggestion of warmth remained. Before she began to remove the linens, a book on the bedside table caught her eye. Byron. Ah, so very like Edward to be thrilled by the romantics. She reached for the volume of poetry and idly flicked through the pages. She read,

_ Darkness _

_I had a dream, which was not at all a dream,_

_The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars_

_Did wander darkling in the eternal space,_

_Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth_

_Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;_

A shiver ran through her at the bleak verse. She turned the page to find another.

_ When We Two Are Parted _

_In silence and tears_

_Half broken-hearted_

_To sever for years,_

_Pale grew thy cheek and cold,_

_Colder thy kiss;_

_Truly that hour foretold_

_Sorrow to this._

_[ ...]_

_In secret we met_

_In silence I grieve,_

_That the heart could forget,_

_Thy spirit deceive._

_If I should meet thee_

_After long years,_

_How should I greet thee?_

_With silence and tears._

Clara’s eyes filled with moisture as she reread the final verse. Edward had marked the page, and it bore the signs of constant referral, clearly a well-read and poignant poem. Clara was under no illusion that the words carried any significance to her liaison with Edward. No, the sting of losing Esther would have brought him back to these words time and again. Though a part of her did wish, even with her own hardened and battered heart, that it had been she that he so lamented.

Seventeen

_Berwick House, Mount Row, Mayfair_

Jack was never more pleased to see his townhouse as he and his fellow travellers rounded the corner of Grosvenor Street into Mount Row. Lights had been left burning, though the hour was late. They walked their mounts around to the mews and handed them into the care of his stablemaster with instructions to have them returned to the ostler on the morn.

Carlisle and Denham followed him into the entrance hall of his London home and were left in the capable hands of his butler, Swinton, who promptly arranged for rooms and hot baths to be provided. Jack hastened away to locate Louisa; finding her sat in the library once more, a game of chess before her. Jack was surprised to see that she was not alone. Kit Ellis sat opposite her and stood as Jack entered the room, his face lit with relief.

Had he found his marchioness in any other man’s company; Jack suspected that he would have been a deal more than surprised. However, Kit was obviously as anxious as Louisa for his return. His wife smiled widely upon noticing his arrival and hurried to greet him. After an enthusiastic and much-needed embrace, Louisa blushed and retired from the room, stating that supper trays would be organised for him and his guests as soon as possible.

Kit, who had moved to a discreet distance, allowing the couple a moment of privacy, once more remembered his purpose and enquired about the success of their endeavour.

“We managed to track the shipment to a pyrotechnics manufacturer in Wapping. I need you to organise round the clock surveillance as soon as possible.” Jack replied, heading wearily to the sideboard and splashing two fingers of whiskey into a glass. He motioned to Kit, who declined to join him. “What news from the Home Office? They need to be apprised of the urgency of this matter.”

“They have a team reviewing the journal and are trying to piece together all known activity. If I may be candid, My Lord, they don’t seem to be too concerned at present.”

Frowning, Jack took a seat in one of the fireside chairs, “When I advise them of my suspicions, they shall have no recourse but to sit up and take notice. Carlisle believes the attack is imminent and the target is almost certainly the Prime Minister or members of his cabinet.”

Three days later Edward was sat reading a newspaper in the library of Berwick House. Political ramblings and the ups and downs of the financial markets dominated the rag was hardly riveting stuff. Tossing the broadsheet aside, he stood and wandered to the long window that overlooked the townhouse garden. There was an elaborate arrangement of rose beds and box hedges that gave the space uniformity. He wasn’t one for flowers or plants, but he appreciated symmetry. At the centre of the garden, he saw the outline of an ornamental pond. Rectangular in shape, it reminded him of a similar construction in the grounds of Denham Place with its defined lines and expanse of still water interrupted only by the occasional lily pad. He hadn’t thought of that pond in years. How much longer would it take before he was able to go home, he pondered wistfully.

The door to the library opened abruptly, interrupting his contemplation. Hargreaves and Carlisle strode in, quickly followed by Hargreaves’ assistant, Kit Ellis. Immediately alert; this could mean only one thing, thought Edward.

“We’ve had word from our men in Wapping. The cargo left the warehouse this morning and is en route to the city.” Hargreaves explained solemnly.

“Then it’s as we feared. I’ve just read that the state opening of parliament was today and the Richmond Ball tonight.” Edward replied, “Did your advice make any difference, Hargreaves?”

Carlisle abruptly stomped off towards the sideboard. Pouring himself a large glass of amber spirit, he downed it before choking. “Blasted whiskey, Jack! Hell’s teeth. How can you drink this concoction? Where’s the damn brandy?”

Ignoring his friends fit of poor humour, Hargreaves instead turned his mind to Denham’s enquiry. “I took the advice to the very top. I tried to warn the Home Secretary of the threat and implored with him to keep the Prime Minister away from the event.” Hargreaves looked like he had aged ten years in the past few days. Dark circles framed his piercing blue eyes, making them appear grey and lacklustre. “They just don’t believe, even with the evidence we have, that the reformists are well organised enough to penetrate such a bastion of the Haute Ton. Imbeciles, the lot of them.”

Jack sat heavily in one of the chairs set out for quiet reading. “The numbers under my command are fewer than we need. The Home Secretary will not divert resources to what he calls ‘my hunch’. He doesn’t want guards placed in Richmond House for fear of causing a panic, so it’s just us and about a dozen of my most trusted men. Needless to say, we will be going against the orders of the Home Secretary himself.” He looked up at Edward, “You’re not obliged to continue to help us, Denham, and quite frankly, if I were you, I’d walk away now, but you’ve come this far, and we need every man we can get. Will you join us?”

Edward considered for a moment before reaching the only decision his conscience would allow. “I know I’m not your first choice in this - I’m no agent after all, but I can hardly walk away now, can I? I still owe you a debt for allowing me to return to my homeland. I saw the reformists and can identify them, so perhaps, I could be of some small help.”

He could feel Carlisle's assessing eyes upon him. Edward turned to meet his gaze and nodded. Carlisle acknowledged the action with a rare smile.

After running through their plan several times, it was a few hours later, and dressed in evening finery, that all four men climbed into a coach bound for Richmond House. Hargreaves had persuaded Louisa to forgo attendance, and she had reluctantly agreed.

Edward would have been amused by his appearance, so long had it been since he was trussed up in formal wear, had it not been for the seriousness of the night’s endeavours. How was he, a wastrel and a peacock in the eyes of all of polite society, ever going to aid in the defence of the realm? It seemed ludicrous to his own ears, yet here he was.

A short time later they entered the ballroom after being announced by the master of ceremonies. If Edward had expected surprise at his re-entry into polite society, he was disabused. His name caused no whispers or obvious disdain; it evoked no reaction at all. The realisation made him inexplicably relieved.

Leading them deftly through the crowd, Ellis pointed out the prominent figures of the cabinet as they passed. It was disappointing to note how many had failed to heed Hargreaves advice. With luck, the reformist plans could be foiled because if not, there was a real possibility that half the ruling body of Britain would be incapacitated, if not dead by morn.

Edward and the others separated and began to prowl the perimeter of the ballroom. Grabbing a drink from a passing servant, Edward sauntered off in the direction of the terrace. Being early in the evening, it was blessedly empty. The skies were clouded, and only vague strains of moonlight illuminated the dark expanse of the gardens before him. Moving to stand by the terrace railing, he scanned his surroundings and waited.

A short time later, he was joined by Carlisle who nodded towards the partially shadowed parterre garden; shapes and symmetry again, Edward mused. How the aristocracy enjoyed order. That was what they were defending, after all, was it not: order.

“There is to be a fireworks display this evening, according to our esteemed hostess, just beyond the gardens. No expense will have been spared if I know the Duchess. She intends to make this an evening to remember.” Carlisle spoke quietly, but Edward could hear his tone was laced with irony.

“Let’s hope it’s remembered for the right reasons, then.” He replied in an effort to calm his apprehension.

“Indeed.” Nodded Carlisle sombrely. “There will be an area set out for the most prestigious guests, and I would suggest that will be their target. A cluster of Government officials, all crowded together, enjoying the display. They will be like sitting ducks.”

Eighteen

_Richmond House, on the banks of the Thames_

“Lord Liverpool,” The speaker announced, followed shortly after by “Lord Babington and Lady Babington.”

Esther would never get used to these ton events. The pomp and ceremony were ridiculous in the extreme. Having arrived in London a few days ago, they had been besieged with invitations to political dinners and soirées. There was something different in the air this season; she could feel it. Being a political hostess was never an ambition of hers, but as Babington got more and more drawn into the workings of The Lords, she could do nowt but support his endeavours.

According to her husband, Earl Liverpool, their esteemed and Right Honourable Prime Minister, was an age-old friend of his late fathers. Never an opportunity went by that Liverpool didn’t try to tempt her husband away from the Whigs. Esther smiled to herself, Babington had too much of a social conscience to become a Tory. The bills he supported in the House were humanitarian in nature, and he was an advocate for the repeal of the corn laws and judicial reform. Nevertheless, Liverpool was a popular Prime Minister and a man that commanded the universal respect from both sides of the house.

As they made their way into the ballroom, a familiar face came into view. Hargreaves, or more formally, the Marquess of Berwick, broke from a group of gentlemen to greet them. Liverpool bowed his retreat and moved away with a frown just as their Hargreaves joined them.

“Jack, my friend. Well met.” Babington shook his hand with a grin, looking around, he added, “Is Louisa not with you?”

“Lady Babington, Babington. Good evening.” Hargreaves greeted them distractedly, whilst watching the Prime Minister’s retreating back. He appeared to shake himself from his thoughts and remembered his manners. “Ah, apologies. Louisa is not in attendance this evening, though she is well.”

“Oh, that is a shame. I had hoped to see her. I must pay her a call now that we are in town.” Esther regarded him carefully, “I can see that the two of you have matters to discuss. I shall join the ladies and will expect you again, Babington, when the dancing commences.” With a curious final glance, she turned and was soon swallowed by the crowd.

Babington smiled broadly, “So, how goes married life, my friend? I must say, it’s a surprise to see you out and about alone. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks.” He added with a smirk.

Hargreaves smiled. “I have not one complaint regarding my marriage or my wife, thank you Babbers, I find being leg-shackled exceedingly pleasing. It is my other responsibilities that give me concern this evening.”

“Ah, yes. I did not fail to note Liverpool’s hasty retreat. You and he are at loggerheads, I assume?” Babington asked, no longer smiling.

Hargreaves gave an exasperated sigh. “The bloody man refuses to listen. His very presence here tonight shows me how little he regards the threats to his office. Now he’s here, he makes our lives all the more difficult.”

Babington frowned. “Has this something to do with the other business?”

Hargreaves nodded slowly and spoke quietly, “You have chosen a poor night to start the season. Take my advice; stay far away from the fireworks demonstration, better yet, leave before midnight and save yourself some anxiety. We expect trouble.” He turned to leave but added, “I must also tell you; Denham is here tonight. He arrived from France a few days ago and is helping our efforts. You may wish to warn Esther, I would not wish to cause her distress.” At Babington’s acknowledgement, he added, “It would benefit him also, to know that you and your good lady are chief amongst those who would see him given this chance to right his wrongs.”

“I’m not sure tonight is the time to reveal the extent of our support. We don’t know how things are going to play out yet.” Babington spoke quietly. Hargreaves inclined his head in tacit agreement and took his leave.

Babington too remained silent for a moment as he watched his old friend disappear through the throng of guests. Looking around, he spotted Esther conversing with some of the ton matrons. She looked across and caught his eye and winked. God love the woman. She loathed these events; full of artifice and pomposity. He hoped Esther was able to keep that poker face in place when he informed her of this turn of events.

Making his way across the room towards her, he caught sight of Hargreaves again. This time talking to a tall chap with wavy blond hair and patrician nose that he, Babington, would not soon forget. Time was of the essence.

He reached Esther’s side, and she excused herself from the group of ladies. Taking her arm, he led her away towards one of the quieter antechambers set aside for guests to catch their breath and take respite away from the party. They seated themselves; Esther regarding him all the while with concern.

“Babington, what is it? What the devil did Hargreaves tell you to put you all in a dither?” Esther spoke, her eyes shrewdly questioning.

“Ah, yes, well.” He began, “There is something I need to discuss with you, dear …” Babington started, but before he could continue, a tall figure appeared in the doorway.

“I believe he was about to warn you of my resurrection, sister dear,” Edward spoke softly.

Babington stood in alarm, whilst Esther sat motionless for a moment, before turning to regard him through narrowed eyes. “Edward Denham. You’re a braver man that I gave you credit, for approaching me in a public space.” She spoke precisely; enunciating every syllable.

“Quite so, sister. Brave or mad, there is little between the two.” Edward smiled wryly. “However, I come in peace. I was informed of your attendance and wanted to assure you that I hold no ill will towards either you or your husband. Should you wish to eschew the connection, I will back away gracefully; however, there are events afoot this evening that I must see through to their conclusion, and I would like to ensure you are both out of harm's way and ask respectfully, that you keep out of mine.”

Esther scrutinised her stepbrother. “There’s something different about you, Edward. I’m glad of it. It gives me hope that you are on the road to redemption, after all.” She stood and made her way to the doorway and stopped before him, “I will not interfere in your activities. I would like very much to give you the benefit of the doubt. There is more at stake here than reputations and recriminations. See that you don’t squander the chance.” She moved past him and reentered the crush of the ballroom.

Babington, who had followed at her heels, waited a moment longer to take his leave. “Denham, Esther wishes to give you a second chance and Hargreaves appears to trust you. That’s good enough for me. But, should you ever hurt my wife again, I will feed you to my dogs, understood?”

Edward nodded and watched as he followed his wife into the crowd.

Nineteen

Awkward reunions aside, very little progress seemed to be made in their attempt to discover the final plans of the reformists. Edward was growing frustrated and went in search of Carlisle. He found him in the library. Richmond House was a misnomer. The property was more palace than house, and the library was equally as expansive. Along the far end of the opulent room, a set of floor to ceiling windows overlooked the same parterre garden as the terrace further along this wing of the house. There, Carlisle stood vigil, staring out into the sparsely lit grounds.

“I’ve seen some of the men were looking for,” Carlisle spoke as Edward moved to join him. “Denning and Jenkins arrived a short while ago with another man. They are setting up some sort of display.” He pointed to the far end of the formal garden where several wooden crates could vaguely be seen. “I’ve sent two of our men to circle around and get closer. They will signal when they have news.”

Edward pulled out his fob and checked the time: ten minutes before eleven o’clock. The fireworks were due to be set off at midnight. Still time then to stop anything untoward occurring. “Go and grab yourself a drink, I can watch for the signal. You need a break.”

Carlisle nodded. “Watch for a flash of light from the tree line. I’ll be five minutes. Don’t do anything until I return.”

Edward had been keeping watch for only a few minutes when he spotted a shadowy figure making its way across the gardens towards the house. It was too dark, even with torches lit at intervals, to ascertain with any certainty, what the shadowy figure was about. Just then, a flash of light caught his eye from beyond the trees. Once, twice, three times.

Gads. He thought, what the devil was he to do? Three flashes … did that have more significance than a single one? The fellow who had crept across the gardens was making his way back now. Had he placed an explosive or was he just reconnoitring? He needed to alert someone. Just as he turned to leave his post, the door opened, and Carlisle strode back into the library.

“Thank the gods!” Edward exclaimed. “You leave for five minutes after hours of nothing, and I’m left with flashing lights and night-time prowlers.” He explained quickly what he had seen and awaited Carlisle's instruction.

“Right. Three lights signify there is important information to relay. I must go and meet the men immediately.” Carlisle explained urgently as he rushed back towards the hallway. “As for the prowler? It could be nothing but go and scout the area and see if you can find anything. If you see Hargreaves or Ellis, send them to the kitchen garden. That’s where I will be meeting with our men. Whatever it is, they need to hear it.”

At a pace far less dignified than a walk, Edward skirted the dimly lit corridors until he reached the far end of the ballroom, closest to the terrace. He had crossed paths with no one and had to decide which was the more pressing; checking for possible dangers outside or searching out Hargreaves and Ellis and warning them. Edward chose the latter and scanned the crowds of people for sight of either man. He finally spotted Hargreaves, once more with Babington, and made his way with haste, apologising as he pushed his way through the crowd. Stopping before them, he noticed their comfortable camaraderie. These two were old friends. The thought gave him pause, except the time, was not appropriate to consider the implications of that relationship.

“Hargreaves. A word?” He spoke urgently.

Hargreaves turned and regarded the seriousness on Denham’s face. “What’s happened?” He asked, frowning. Denham then proceeded to inform him, sotto voce, of the signal and Carlisle’s request to rendezvous. He went on to add that he would search the terrace for any clues relating to the unknown figure who approached the house from the garden.

“Jack? Can I be of assistance?” Asked Babington who was still stood close by.

Hargreaves turned back, all the while scanning the crowd for allies. They were all occupied, it seemed. The majority of the men were prowling the perimeter of the property, and for the moment we're out of sight. “Actually, perhaps you can aid Denham in a small matter?”

Babington locked eyes with Edward and dipped his head in agreement. Edward cursed and turned on his heel. One duty complete, he was now impatient to see what the prowler had been up to. He exited the ballroom onto the empty terrace once more.

“Denham. Slow down. What’s going on? What are we doing out here?” Babington asked from behind him.

Stopping in his tracks, Edward turned and regarded the man. He had always considered Babington to be a somewhat superficial dandy. He no longer thought so uncharitably towards the fellow and had to acknowledge that there now seemed more to him than hot air and affable charm. “We believe there will be a security incident this evening. I saw a figurehead this way earlier, cloaked in shadows, and I’m concerned that he may have placed something here with the intention of causing harm.”

Babington considered him for a moment then nodded. “Tell me where to look.”

After searching the area where the prowler was last spotted, Babington and Edward came up empty-handed. Just as they were about to make their way back to the steps that led to the stone-flagged terrace, Edward noticed what looked like a rolled-up bundle of cloth tucked in behind a large, heavy planter. He stopped and motioned to Babington to take a look. Unravelling the material, they noticed a strong scent of oil, inside the cloth they found a pistol. He and Babington shared a look of unease.

To Edward, having been embroiled in this intrigue for some weeks, this was the first tangible evidence of foul play. Up until this moment, all of their information had been pieced together using the journal and the circumstantial evidence left by the reformists. It was a sobering thought. Something else struck him as odd. For the pistol to be used, there would need to be someone in situ to fire the damned thing. That meant that their adversaries must have someone amongst the household or guests that would go unnoticed in the crowds of spectators. It also suggested there was a definitive target. Were the fireworks a ruse for another plot altogether?

“What do we do with the weapon?” asked Babington warily.

Edward considered for a moment, “Bundle the rags back up and put them back where you found them. The pistol, I will take to Hargreaves. You, Babington, need to go and find my sister and remove her from here before all hell breaks loose.”

Hargreaves was still stood in deep conversation with Carlisle as Edward rounded the stone-walled kitchen garden. They stopped when they heard him approach. “Well?” Hargreaves asked.

Holding up the pistol that he and Babington had found. “The prowler secreted this away behind one of the planters. It was wrapped in oily rags and left primed and ready.”

“That was a good call, Denham.” Hargreaves took the pistol and inspected it. “This is of fine quality. It’s a Manton. Not what I would expect from a band of working-class revolutionaries.” He passed the weapon to Carlisle who concurred.

“I wonder if they have an ally. A sympathiser within our ranks. Perhaps someone is bankrolling the reformists for their own end?” Edward suggested. “But, it all sounds highly implausible. Perhaps they merely stole the pistol and decided it would do?”

Carlisle nodded, “He has a point. The main thing is we have the weapon, and it can’t be used. Now if we could find who was planning to do the shooting and who they were targeting.”

Edward advised them of the rags that had been left behind, and they agreed to monitor them. With luck, the potential marksman would be unaware of the gun’s absence until he had given the game away. However, they still had the problem of how to neutralise the explosives – if they could find them in time.

As if reading his mind, Hargreaves advised Edward that the agents sent to watch the setting up of the fireworks display believed they had located two devices that seemed superfluous to the general display. Their trajectory was off, and it was their belief that these would be detonated at the same time as the finale – a spectacular Chinese firecracker. Their targets would most likely be the spectators in the observation area, although if it was as they suspected; then the whole scheme had been an elaborate attempt to cause disruption and harm to the governing classes.

At fifteen minutes to midnight, tensions were running high. They had taken up their positions and hoped to dissuade as many guests as possible away from the terrace. Their men had yet to secure the two explosive devices, and with only a few minutes to spare, there was the very real possibility that the attack would not be prevented.

Trying to lighten the mood, Edward suggested that a good rainstorm would solve many of their problems. He laughed and suggested that, in the absence of rain, they could just throw buckets of water over them. Black powder seldom lit when wet, even with a detonator.

“Not such a mad idea, my friend. As long as it could be achieved in the next ten minutes. Hargreaves has all the men standing ready to do what they can, but if we could get someone close enough …” Carlisle trailed off.

“You’re serious?” Edward looked aghast.

“Have we another plan? Other than to limit the impact of the explosion by diverting people away from the terrace. Our Hostess is still adamant that the display will go ahead, and no one wishes to snub the Duchess of Richmond’s entertainment.” Carlisle replied. “Not to mention the fact that we are now desperate enough to try anything – even your madcap suggestions.”

“There are two devices. We would both need to get close enough to disable them, and we have, what, ten minutes?” Edward spoke incredulously. “Can we make it in time? Hargreaves won’t like it.”

“What won’t I like?” Hargreaves spoke ominously from behind Edward.

Carlisle quickly explained the simple plan and waited.

“Well, we have nothing left to lose and only minutes to stop this catastrophe. Go now. Both of you. You have less than ten minutes to save our skins. Go!” Hargreaves hissed. A hare-brained scheme their only hope of averting disaster; he shook his head in disbelief, except, he could come up with nothing better. Maybe it was time he retired for real this time.

It took them a full five minutes to locate the vessels they needed to soak the fuses. Two large pitchers were purloined from the kitchen and filled from the well. Not ideal, but a length of pig’s bladder secured by string prevented the worst of the spillages. They rounded the rear of the garden via the wood and came out behind the fireworks display which was now only supervised by two men responsible for lighting the fuses. They carefully crept the short distance to the first crate with the suspicious fuse and, taking the covering from one pitcher, dumped the contents onto the powder and fuse. They shuffled along as quietly as they could and repeated the process. Just as they were about to retreat, one of the men noticed them.

“’Ere, wot you done?” The short, stout man bellowed looking from the crates to the empty pitchers. “’Ere, Frank. Look what these nobs have done. They ruin’ d the smokers.”

His colleague shook his head, incredulously.

“Well, we ain't got no time for that now. Let’s get ‘em lit. It’s time.” Shaking his head and moving to light the first fuse.

Carlisle and Edward shared a confused look before backing away as quickly as possible. It was obvious that they had been mistaken. How could they have misread the evidence? If the fireworks weren’t the cover for the explosives, what was?

“Oh, god. We need to get to the terrace as fast as possible!” Exclaimed Edward. “I think the fireworks were just a ruse to get the men on the property. I think their real plot is an assassination.”

Carlisle nodded gravely as they took off at a run.

Edward’s lungs were fit to bursting by the time they had retraced their steps back to the house. People had spilt out of the ballroom and were enthralled at the display taking place above their heads. Their influence had been for nought as it seemed no one had listened to the warnings to stay inside.

Edward pushed his way through the crush of spectators, inching his way to the place where the pistol had been secreted. Carlisle had taken the opposite side of the terrace and was making his way, albeit slowly, to the top of the stone steps.

Just as Edward was in sight of the bundle, he noticed one of the guests complete with black tie and tails, manoeuvre himself into position beside the planter. Edward stopped short and observed. The light was poor, but for the intermittent bursts from the heavens, and for the moment, he was partly concealed by the other guests. The man reached down and shook the rags several times, obviously shocked that they failed to conceal a weapon. He crouched and felt behind the planter before standing once more. Pure undisguised anger emanated from the man, who had been seemingly thwarted in his plan. Edward began to inch closer and spotted Carlisle advancing from the rear when he spied the man’s gloved hand slipping inside his jacket to retrieve something. A glint of steel flashed briefly; so quickly that Edward thought he had been mistaken. As he continued to edge closer, he watched the man make his way quickly through the crowd. Keeping him in his sights, he remained concealed from his quarry, more by luck than judgement; the fellow seemed wholly focused on his destination.

Carlisle was closing in from the other side but was at least ten paces behind. As their attacker had almost reached the front of the cordoned-off area, he made for a group of gentlemen who were all diverted by the spectacle of the fireworks finale. Edward was almost alongside. It was then that he saw the silver flash once more, and as the attacker lunged with blade flashing, towards one of the men, Edward didn’t think; he launched himself at the fellow, taking him by surprise and forcing him to miss his intended target. Edward fell to the floor, landing on top of the assailant just as he felt the cold slice of something penetrate his stomach. Oddly, there was no pain as he wrestled with the man, exchanging vicious blows, only as Carlisle and another fellow reached him, pulling the attacker from him, did he fully comprehend that he had been struck by the knife intended for some unsuspecting victim. Upon that realisation, he promptly passed out cold.

Twenty

_Denham Place, Sanditon – three days later._

The roof was finally repaired, thanks to Mr Robinson and his team of skilled workers. The task of refurbishing the interior was well underway, and Clara, at last, felt like she could begin to slow down and enjoy her new home. The funds made available by Berwick had gone a long way towards making life more comfortable. A gardener had joined the staff to tackle the unruly outside space, and an additional maid had been employed to help with the cleaning.

Clara was now sure, with careful budgeting, that she would soon be able to employ a governess for Violet. The child was intelligent and had already begun to exhaust Clara’s repertoire of suitable subjects. The Denham library was modest, but many of the books had suffered from damp and neglect. She hoped to visit the new circulating library in Sanditon soon but feared that even that would soon fall short of her daughters’ thirst for knowledge.

Whilst pondering this dilemma, she failed to notice that two carriages had arrived at the entrance to Denham Place until Mrs Price had shown the visitors into the entrance hall and a familiar feminine voice sounded.

Clara jumped to her feet and hurried down the spiral staircase to greet Esther. Odd that she should visit so soon after removing to town for the Season. And why two carriages, who else had accompanied her? The answer became apparent as Clara rounded the final bend.

Stumbling to a halt, Clara regarded the sight before her. Esther was there, and Babington stood giving instructions to Mrs Price, while footmen carried in a stretcher. Most shocking of all was the recognition that flooded her as she stared at the face of the unconscious man lying motionless. That face was indelibly etched upon Clara’s heart and mind. Edward.

More calmly than she felt, she made her way down the final few steps. She searched Esther’s face, pale and drawn and with a squeeze of her hand and a subdued smile for the uncharacteristically sombre Babington, she moved past them to the stretcher and its frighteningly still burden.

“Oh, my dear man. What mischief have you been up to now?” She whispered, gently stroking his matted hair from his brow. Conscious of eyes upon her; Clara motioned for the footmen to proceed. As they carefully manoeuvred the stretcher, a million questions and emotions flooded her. Eventually turning back to a silent Esther and Babington, she motioned for them to follow her up to the drawing room, where she hoped some answers would be forthcoming.

Babington looked from his wife to Miss Brereton and wondered where to start. Hargreaves had relayed to him what had occurred after the fireworks display, but he had not been sure how much of the truth he could reveal, but Esther had worn down his resolve, and now Clara looked fit to burst if she did not receive an explanation in short order.

“It is my understanding that you, Miss Brereton, have been in contact with Sir Edward over the past few years and are aware of his residence in France?” Babington began.

Esther cast a surprised look at Clara, who held her gaze, “Edward and I have been in contact for several years. Not regularly, but enough to maintain a kind of friendship. He ensured, initially, that I would always know how to contact him in the event of … consequences from our liaison. Although, by the time I finally did need him, he was unable to help.” Clara smiled wryly, “He only agreed to stay in contact if I promised not to reveal his whereabouts to anyone. And so, I never mentioned our correspondence. I apologise if I have misled you.”

“Despite his past and his many nefarious deeds, I am glad he had a friend,” Esther added; her shrewd gaze alerting Clara that the matter was not forgotten, and further explanation would be required at a later date.

“Yes well, since you last communicated with him, Miss Brereton, Edward has been undertaking a kind of commission – or employment – on behalf of the Crown. His cooperation helped to secure his passage back to England, but the mission that he was involved with experienced some unexpected difficulties. As a consequence, and after acquitting himself bravely, he suffered serious injuries and has since contracted a fever that has rendered him insensible.” Babington explained sombrely. “He has regained consciousness once or twice, but the only request he has managed to articulate was his wish to return home.”

The next few days went by in a blur. Doctor Fuchs, on the brink of retirement, was persuaded to treat Edward and visited twice daily to change dressings and to assess his fevered state. Lady Denham was apprised of her nephews’ condition and, when given the details of his most recent exploits, was in equal parts shocked by his precarious state of health and boastful of her dear nephew’s heroism, much to Esther and Clara’s chagrin.

So, even in his unconscious state, Sir Edward Denham’s days were never without company. From applications of poultices and preparations courtesy of Dr Fuchs, his Aunt’s daily fortifying orations, to Mrs Price’s fussing and tending, Clara suspected the poor man was willing himself to remain unconscious.

Curled up in the fireside chair in her nightgown and wrapper, she had begun a ritual of her own. Each evening she would select one of Byron’s poems to read to the sleeping man, buried under his velvet coverlet, illuminated by the warm glow of the fire. In these moments, Clara allowed her guard to fall, and her concerns to show. Byron’s words would envelop her in a blanket of memories and emotions, and she would pretend for a short time that she was in her rightful place at Edward’s side.

Clara’s unguarded moments were for her alone, but little did she realise that on each of the past three evenings, before she settled in with the book of poetry, another, small person had sneaked into the room and awaited her recitation from behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room. Violet was a naturally curious child, and when she had heard the adults talking of Sir Edward Denham, she knew it was long past time that she met her long-absent papa.

Tonight’s poetic offering was one Clara had been delaying for the past few nights. It was the poem she believed meant a great deal to her unconscious companion and the one that had the greatest chance of stirring some life into his dormant mind. As she read, a tear slipped from beneath her lashes, and she swiped it away, annoyed at herself for once again becoming maudlin at the words and their connotations. 

“ _In secret we met, In silence I grieve, That the heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive.”_ She read, her voice cracking slightly.

_“If I should meet thee, After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears.”_ A voice, rusty with disuse, finished the verse from the bed.

Clara squealed in surprise, and jumped to her feet, the book slipping from her fingers and hitting the floor. Moving carefully towards the canopied bed, she looked closely at the pale face before her; no longer flushed with fever, his eyes opened to slits and his lips dry and slightly parted.

“You’re awake!” She muttered in disbelief, “You look like death himself, but you are alive!”

A huff of laughter escaped Edward before he gasped “Water.”

Hurrying to fill a glass from the pitcher, she gently pressed it to his lips and allowed him a few small sips. With her free hand, she gently pressed it to his brow and confirmed what her eyes told her; no fever. Relieved; she smiled her first genuine smile in what felt like days.

Revitalised a little by the quenching of his thirst, Edward blinked twice. He was definitely in his bedchamber at Denham Place. The bed coverings and canopy were most definitely his, although the room no longer seemed to smell of damp. Instead, the gentle scent of gardenias filled his senses. His gentle reader, whom he thought had visited him in his dreams, was indeed Clara Brereton. Beautiful, bewitching Clara. Although she looked tired and less self-assured than he remembered her.

Attempting to sit up a little, his injuries made themselves painfully apparent. His ribs, he assumed were broken, sent sharp slicing pain through his chest, and a tight binding around his middle warned him of another more serious injury. In fact, now he came to think of it, almost every bone and muscle in his body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of cattle. As Clara fussed with pillows in an attempt to ease his comfort, he spoke again. “So, Clara Brereton, I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation as to why you are here, in my bedchamber?”

Clara froze. Until this moment, Edward’s wellbeing was all that had concerned her. She suddenly understood that if he regained his strength and returned to Denham Place for good, she and Violet would once more find themselves without a home. Obviously, she would be unable to remain here with a single man. She was trying to repair her reputation, not shred it to ribbons.

Stalling for time, she replied “Never mind that, you must rest and recover. There will be time for explanations soon enough.”

Edward, sufficiently alert now to recognise a diversionary tactic when he heard one, sighed. He was as weak as a kitten and was in no condition to match wits with Clara Brereton. “Very well. We shall defer this conversation until I have more strength.”

Clara brightened at his acquiescence and asked “Are you hungry? Shall I fetch some broth?”

A movement caught his eye from the corner of the room. A flash of pink quickly darted back behind the screen positioned there.

“Edward? Broth – shall I get you some?” Clara repeated.

“Err … yes, yes, that’s a fine idea. I find myself hungry enough to eat a horse.” Edward smiled weakly.

As Clara hurried from the room, Edward’s attention swung once more to the dressing screen in the corner of the bedchamber. Waiting to ensure that Clara had indeed left the room in search of sustenance, he spoke gently. “Come now, no need to hide. We are quite alone.”

After a long pause and an equally long sigh, a small head bobbed out from behind the screen. “Is Mama gone? She will stop my puddings for a whole month if she catches me here.”

Edward stared open-mouthed at the child before him. His child. She was as beautiful as he had always imagined she would be. With crystalline blue eyes and pale blonde hair falling loose in little curls around her delicately framed shoulders, he felt an obstruction in his throat and a suspicious moisture in his eyes. Gads. What was happening to him? He thought in alarm. He was running the risk of making an ass of himself; tears indeed. Coughing, then promptly wincing in pain, he felt slightly more able to speak. “I shan’t tell your Mama, if you would grant me the honour of an introduction, Miss.”

“Oh, of course, I am supposed to curtsy too!” She exclaimed. Shifting out from behind the screen, she pronounced herself Miss Violet and offered a credible curtsey, given that she wore bed socks and a long nightgown in a pretty shade of rose pink. “And you are my Papa.” She added decisively.

“Err, umm …” Edward began, lost for words. Hell’s teeth, what did one say to one’s natural daughter upon first acquaintance? “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Violet. And, yes, I am your father.”

“You were gone for a long time. I’ve been waiting for almost six summers to meet you.” Violet frown slightly. “Did you not want to meet me?”

“What? No, of course, I did. I have wanted to meet you from the moment you were born, but circumstances prevented it. I apologise,” Edward replied, slightly panicked at the accusatory tone Violet had employed. Hmm, her mother’s daughter indeed.

“Hmm. Aunt D says that you were naughty and were sent away because you weren’t very nice to people.” She added sceptically.

His daughter was not letting him off the hook just yet, it seemed. “Aunt D?” He asked, confused.

“Yes, Aunt D - Lady Denham.” Violet replied with a roll of her eyes, “Obviously.” Just as if he had asked something incredibly silly.

“You’ve met Lady Denham?” Edward replied in surprise. His Aunt was a dragon. Surely she would not acknowledge his daughter. On so many levels, he found the idea remarkable.

“Oh, yes. Mama and I take tea with her every week since we came to live here.” Violet nodded. “So, were you unkind to my Mama?”

Edward, still surprised at the revelation, failed to hear the door opening. He grimaced as he realised Clara had returned with a pot of tea and a bowl of broth balanced on a tray.

“Violet! What are you doing here?” Clara scolded.

Edward shook his head, “No, it’s alright, Clara. Violet and I were just becoming acquainted. It’s fine.”

Clara looked between the pair and muttered to herself; she should have known her daughter would try to broker an introduction to, what had been up until now, an imaginary father figure. Oft spoken of, but no more real than the pixies and faeries she read of in her storybooks. Yet here he was; as large as life.

“And to answer the question you so rudely asked, Violet. Sir Edward was not unkind to me.” She speared her daughter with a look that would tolerate no further continuance of the subject. Yet, under her breath, she muttered: “Misguided, calculating, but not unkind.”

A splutter of laughter emanated from the bed as she placed the tray across Edwards lap. She narrowed her eyes at him as if daring him to contradict her assessment.

“Violet, please say goodnight to your father and go back to your bedchamber. I shall speak to you again in the morning.” Clara shooed her reluctant daughter from the room.

Realising how weak he truly was, Edward could barely lift the spoon to his mouth. Clara sensing his struggle proceeded to feed him. Had he been in better shape, he would have no doubt teased her mercilessly for her act of servitude. In reality, he was grateful and more than happy to have her undivided attention. God, but it was good to see her.

Twenty-One

As Edward slowly regained his strength, his confinement to chambers became an intolerable bore. Between Clara, Esther and his Aunt, he was fighting an uphill battle. Even when Dr Fuchs removed his stitches and proclaimed him free of any lingering fever, they continued to refuse his requests to leave his room, in favour of rest.

He had been shocked to his very toes when his Aunt had sailed into his chamber one week past and spoke of ‘the importance of regaining one’s health so that one may perform one’s duty’. The batty old thing had even arrived with a fresh supply of asses milk to aid in his recovery. He was not so dicked in the nob that he didn’t appreciate the irony of her ministrations. It seemed that the last five years had been forgotten – he wasn’t yet sure if he could confidently say forgiven – but, once more into the fold, he was embraced.

Esther had visited him too. The encounter was not as uncomfortable as he had assumed it would be, largely because the years had taught him, and apparently Esther also, that the closeness they had shared in years gone by had been little more than a need to belong to someone, in a world that had all but abandoned them to their fates. He had apologised to her for all of the hurt he had caused and wished her happy. When she had left, he had realised that his feelings for Esther were entirely as they should be, those of a relation, and nothing more.

And of course, there was his little menace, Violet. Grinning at the thought of her exploits, he found that he enjoyed his daughter’s frequent visits greatly. The little minx was want to ask the most inappropriate and confounding questions, and he had found himself lost for words on more than one occasion. She was a peculiar mix of Clara and himself and was wholly too confident and articulate for a girl just shy of six years old.

But the visits he anticipated above all others were from Clara herself. Although somewhere along the line, and certainly since her retirement from her life as a courtesan, Clara had belatedly learned the rules of decorum and was nothing if not perfectly, properly behaved in his company. He longed to ruffle her feathers just to catch a glimpse of her old spirit and passion. Instinct told him that she was still the same spitfire he had known before, but her search for acceptance and respectability were smothering those qualities and Edward mourned the loss of them.

Physically, she had changed little since their last encounter. Her hair was the same shade of sunshine, and her eyes were like pools of aquamarine, though there were shadows there too. Life had been unforgiving; he knew and regretted that in his idiocy and greed, he had failed to be there for her when she needed it most. How well she had coped with Violet and the lengths she had gone to, to secure her – their - daughters health and happiness, humbled him.

However, there was one thing that had not changed in all of the years that separated them, and that was how the woman affected him. When her hand grazed his, or she checked his forehead for signs of fever, his reaction was visceral. Only his lack of health and vitality had prevented him from testing the waters to see if the chemistry he felt was reciprocated. God, he hoped so. So, he ate his fortifying meals and drank his asses milk with a single-minded devotion to recovery. As soon as he was well enough, he would see if the old Denham charm had survived unscathed.

Clara had taken a rare moment for herself. Without the pressure to entertain or the need to deal with household tasks, she allowed her thoughts to linger on Edward. How thankful she had been when he had woken from his fever. When the stitches had been removed from his stomach wound without signs of further infection, she had actually shed tears of relief.

However, his recovery brought with it other concerns. About her future, about Violet’s growing attachment to her long-absent father and most worrying of all, her own heart. Clara huffed a breath in exasperation. Time had changed nothing. Not for her, at least. The very first sight of Edward, unconscious and injured on that stretcher had caused her foolish heart to race even as it ached afresh at the thought of losing him once more.

Ha! She thought, he was never mine to lose. Somehow, she must harden her resolve and resist the pull that he had always had on her. She would not become some pitiful female brought low by unrequited love. She was Clara Brereton, and she had endured much, much worse than a broken heart. Though she could admit that it grew harder as each day passed; the physical reaction she had to him was becoming more difficult to disguise, but for the sake of herself and her daughter, she must quell these longings. Edward’s heart had always belonged to another; a strong abiding affection born of years of shared experiences. Although she was fairly sure now that his affection and devotion towards Esther was entirely one-sided, particularly as Esther was clearly head over teakettle in love with Babington, Clara could still not offer her heart to a man who’s own was so thoroughly attached to another.

Her situation may soon resolve itself regardless, she mused. They had yet to have the conversation that had been deferred, pending Edward’s recovery. Was he planning to return to Denham Place permanently? Would he head back to London and reacquaint himself with his vices? Did he even realise that she and Violet had been tenants here since leaving their life in the city? Would he ask her to leave now that he had returned? So many unanswered questions!

Even if she had somewhere to go, Clara feared that she had given her heart to Denham Place as equally as she had its owner. This was the first place in more than a decade that she considered home, and it would be difficult indeed to part with it now. Yet the choice may not be hers to make.

As Clara struggled with her thoughts, a horse and rider arrived at the entrance to Denham.

Looking around at the vista before him, Sam could see the draw the old place had on Edward. The tenant that Hargreaves had found for the place was living up to their word. No one would think this estate had been left dormant and decaying for years on end.

Walking his tired horse up the driveway towards the gothically styled manor, he pondered his reason for coming here. Much still needed to be settled and now reports confirmed Denham was set to recover, he needed to be well enough to testify. The arrests that followed the incident at Richmond House were frustrating, but with Denham’s testimony, they hoped to be able to prove the links between the men they had encountered in Dunkirk, with their attacker.

A movement to his left caught his eye. A lady, blonde-haired and although not in the first blush of youth, quite startlingly beautiful, was crossing the lawns towards him. Was this the real reason Denham wished so much to return home?

“May I help you, sir?” She called politely as she approached.

“Good day, My Lady,” Sam responded with a nod, “I’m an acquaintance of Sir Edward Denham and wish to pay my respects. The name is Carlisle.”

“Ah, Mr Carlisle, I am Clara Brereton, just Clara will do. You are fortunate, indeed. Sir Edward’s health is much improved and would benefit from some company.” Clara smiled warmly. “Please leave your mount with the stable boy and join us in the house.”

Sam dipped his head once again in acknowledgement and rode around to the stable block where he found a young lad mucking out. “He’s had a long ride; please see to it he gets a good rub down and a bucket of oats.” Flipping a coin to the eager lad, Sam removed his belongings and strode around to the entrance of the property.

Clara met him in the foyer and directed him up the spiral staircase and into the drawing room. There he found Lord Henry Babington taking tea with a red-haired lady, Sam assumed was Lady Babington.

“Carlisle!” Babington exclaimed with a grin.”What a surprise. Have your duties in town concluded? I assume you’re here to check up on Denham?”

“Henry, darling, perhaps you would allow Clara the chance to make introductions and offer the poor man refreshment before interrogating him.” Lady Babington chastised with a smile.

“Thank you, Esther.” Turning to Sam, Clara gestured to the couple, “Well, you obviously know Lord Babington.” 

Sam strode forward and shook his hand. “Babington, old fellow. Hargreaves didn’t mention that you’d still be here.”

Clara gestured to Esther. “Lady Esther Babington, May I make known to you, Mr Carlisle. A friend of your brothers.”

Carlisle turned and offered a bow to Lady Babington. “A pleasure, My Lady. I hadn’t realised the connection, please forgive the intrusion but I have a need to speak to Sir Edward on a matter of some importance.”

Lady Babington quirked a smile, “I too am a guest here, Mr Carlisle, if you are inconveniencing anyone, it would be your hostess, surely?” She inclined her head towards Clara.

Carlisle, realising his faux pas began to offer his apologies but was cut short by the lady herself.

“Nonsense, Esther. No one is inconveniencing anyone. Edward will be thrilled to see a new face after being stuck for so long with only us for company.” Clara laughed. “Please help yourself to refreshment, and I shall see if Edward is ready to receive you.”

Leaving the drawing room and their uncommonly handsome visitor, Clara began the climb to the family quarters. Reaching Edward’s door, she knocked. After a long pause, she knocked again with no response.after the third time, impatience and concern overtook her. Had he stumbled and fallen or suffered a relapse, perhaps? Moving into the room, she called “Edward?”

The bedchamber was empty, and only the door to the dressing room lay open before her. Without stopping to think, she advanced across the room and through the doorway into what was currently being used as a bathing chamber. She ground to a halt, as displayed before her, in all his naked beauty, was Edward, submerged to his waist in a bathing tub. The look of shock and amusement that graced his features reminded her of her Edward of old. She couldn’t help but grin in response.

“Well, Clara, my dear. Have you come to scrub my back?” He asked with a smirk, offering her the soap he held in his hand.

A giggle escaped her before she could suppress it – so much for being the world-weary courtesan. A naked man in a bath should not turn her into a giddy young miss! Clara! Get a hold of yourself, she scolded herself.

“I, er, came to advise you that you have a visitor downstairs,” Clara replied as calm as she could manage.

“Oh, how disappointing. I thought you had sought out my company, having neglected me terribly for days.” Edward pouted playfully, raking his gaze over her suggestively as she stood before him, defiantly.

Drat the man and his affect on my nerves, she thought. Instead, Clara rolled her eyes. “Edward, I suggest you make yourself decent. I shall send the handsome Mr Carlisle up to talk to you now.”

“Wait – did you say Carlisle was here?” Edward asked in surprise, all trace of playfulness gone. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Pass me that linen, please.”

Clara did as he bid and handed him the towel as he stood. She spun around in haste, scrunching her eyes for good measure when she caught a glimpse of his naked form in the mirror opposite.

A chuckle from behind her made her lips quirk. Such a foolish creature she was.

“I don’t know why you’re behaving so missish, Clara Brereton,” Edward spoke grinning at her reaction. “You and I have a child together, after all,” he added for good measure.

Oh dear, there was no denying that, and she had done much worse in the years that followed, but there was something about being back here with him that made her feel more like the girl she had once been before time and men had ruined her.

Straightening her spine, she turned unhurriedly. Clara slowly perused the man in front of her in much the same way he had raked his gaze over her feminine form. Though modestly wrapped in a towel, she could see enough to recognise his strength and vitality. Willing herself not to blush, she drew her eyes over his naked chest returning time and again to the scar that was still puckered and proud just above his navel. Reaching out, she traced her fingertips gently over the evidence of his injury and noted his reaction as his stomach muscles clenched at her touch. “I’m pleased that you’re healing well.” She whispered softly before turning was walking away.

Edward let out the breath that he had been holding. The little minx. She felt it too, he was sure. Recalling her words, he called out just as she was about to leave his chamber.

“What did you mean the _handsome_ Mr Carlisle?” His voice held an unfamiliar note one might define as jealousy if one was stretching the imagination, that was.

A tinkling laugh was his only reply as she closed the door behind her.

Twenty-Two

Fifteen minutes later, Edward found himself dressed and presentable. He was damned if he would stay here and suffer any further fussing and preening. No, Carlisle was here to talk of their mission, he assumed, and he would jolly well do so in the comfort of his receiving rooms downstairs. He hoped they would be comfortable. The last time he had been here there had been damp and peeling paper everywhere.

As Edward made his way down the staircase to the lower floor, he began to spot the many improvements that had indeed been made in his absence. There were also touches a brightness dotted here and there – flowers in vases and knickknacks adorning almost every surface. He stopped to regard a colourful figurine of a shepherdess in blue and white porcelain as he passed, reaching out to stroke a finger over the smooth glaze, and almost sent it flying off the windowsill as a voice spoke from behind him.

“Naughty! Mama says we must look and admire, but pretty things must not be touched.” Violet had crept up behind him and scowled as he carefully withdrew his hand.

“Ah, Violet, my dear. Try not to sneak up on a fellow, there’s a good girl.” Edward laughed.

“What are you doing out of bed? Mama said you were not supposed to leave your room.” Violet continued to question.

“Well, young lady, I suppose you never leave your room when instructed not to?” Edward asked incredulously. “For what it’s worth, I’m feeling much improved, and I have a special visitor. Would you like to meet him?”

“I shall enjoy that above all things, Papa. I must practice my curtsy, Mama says so.” Violet beamed.

Taking her hand in his, they made their way down the staircase and entered the drawing room.

Esther and Clara looked up as they entered, but before he could be chastised by the duo for leaving his quarters too soon, he noticed his guest. Carlisle was standing beside the fireplace, accompanied by a smiling Babington.

“Sam Carlisle, may I introduce to you my daughter, Violet.” Edward motioned for the child to step forward. With a pretty curtsy and an angelic smile, Edward had never felt so proud.

“Violet” Clara beckoned. “Let the gentlemen speak for a moment. Come, sit here with mama and Aunt Esther. Edward, perhaps you would like to speak to your friend in the study?”

“Study? I have one of those now do I?” Edward looked confused for a moment. He turned to Carlisle and Babington. “Much has changed since I left England, come.”

After a series of wrong turns, Edward found the room that he assumed Clara referred to as the study. It had the smell of fresh paint, and a large desk dominated the space. Some books filled the shelves on either side of a recently tended fireplace, and an Aubusson rug had been placed between a series of armchairs. Edward was still wracking his brain over his poor recollection of the room when he spotted a painting above the desk of two young men, not dissimilar to himself. He realised that he had seen that painting. It had once hung in one of the receiving rooms at Sanditon House. His father and his older brother shared a canny resemblance indeed.

Babington made for the drinks tray that had been left on one of the pedestal tables behind the desk and poured them each a brandy. It was then that Edward realised that this space had once been used for storage and had been shut up years ago due to its poor state of repair.

Babington, sensing Edward’s confusion, explained. “Clara has been a marvel, truly. I never expected her to have accomplished so much in such a short tenure. It was fortuitous indeed that Denham needed a caretaker tenant and she and Violet needed a home. Fate, really.”

“So, Clara was the tenant that Hargreaves spoke of. How the devil did he become involved in this?” Edward replied bemused.

“Clara and Louisa, Lady Berwick are acquainted. In fact, Clara saved her and her sister Rose, Crowe’s Countess, from certain harm. It’s a long story for another day. Clara was instrumental in bringing a brigand to justice, and because of her situation, was keen to find a home for Violet away from the scandal in town. Esther and I offered to step in, and all was well for a while. Sometime before Hargreaves’ wedding, we realised that Violet was not thriving away from the only person she had ever known, so we made sure that Clara would be present at Wentworth for the wedding. Clara’s circumstances had changed dramatically by then, and so we offered Denham as a solution. Hargreaves was aware of the offer we planned to make and had already set things in motion to recruit your aid. In return for your cooperation, Denham was to be restored, and Clara was the obvious choice to oversee it.”

“Then I thank you for both caring enough about my daughter and giving Clara a second chance. She truly was a victim of circumstance, and I should have been here to aid her myself.” Edward spoke sincerely. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes, “It was you, wasn’t it?”

Babington returned his look with a benign smile, “Me?”

“Yes, Dujardin, the French gentlemen who, along with Carlisle here, first approached me in Lille, spoke of a ‘recommendation’. Someone had put my name forward as a potential operative and wished to see me redeemed. Hargreaves acted on your suggestion, and the rest is history, I suppose.” Edward shook his head as it all became clear.

“Esther and I discuss everything, Edward. When Clara came back into our lives, we realised, _both_ of us, that her actions had been born out of the need to survive and her subsequent choices were made out of desperation and love.” Babington took a sip of his brandy. “The best way we could support her without offering charity that allowed her to maintain her self-respect was to see that the father of her child returned to these shores and was able to support her. Despite our differences, I never thought you truly wicked, and I only hope you can become the man she deserves you to be.”

“Right well, this is all very cosy.” Carlisle cleared his throat awkwardly. “Now that we have clarified the nature of Denham’s redemption and the fate of his future wife and child’s happiness, perhaps we can get down to business?”

“Wait, what? No one mentioned marriage!” Edward retorted, but Carlisle’s raised eyebrows and incredulous stare suggested that was indeed where his future was headed. Oddly, now the seed had been planted, the thought was not without merit, and he found himself imagining the possibilities even as he tried to listen to Carlisle's report.

Carlisle began by explaining the events that occurred directly after Edward’s run-in with the assailant at the Richmond House ball.

“… by the time I reached your side, the fellow, we later identified as Armitage, had already felled you with his blade.” Carlisle clarified. “The black powder was a ruse and was a legitimate purchase, albeit free of revenue and taxes, meant for use in the production of Armitage’s pyrotechnic displays. His company was on the brink of bankruptcy, and he needed a high-profile job to secure his future. However, the ‘shopping expedition’ to Dunkirk was indeed a cover for the reformists to organise and plot the assassination that you managed to thwart, meanwhile, Armitage profited hugely from the black-market powder. The opening season fireworks display was the solution to his prayers, and in exchange, he was ‘persuaded’ to infiltrate the ball and to eliminate the target. The timing was everything, and it had to occur during the finale when the guests would be sufficiently diverted, so as not to notice the incident. It was timed to the second, and so, when the weapon was not where it was supposed to be, he panicked and became sloppy having to resort to the use of a blade. A trained assassin would never have been so shoddy. We must thank the stars that these men, whilst dangerous, were amateurs.”

“So, there was never any explosives, and the powder was a red herring, is that what you’re saying?” Edward asked, trying to follow the convoluted tale.

Carlisle shook his head. “No, not exactly. The trail of powder allowed us to link the reformists to Armitage and without that connection, we would have been going into the situation blind. Had they not tried to tie in the assassination attempt with a black-market shipment of powder, we would have missed it completely, and they would have almost certainly have succeeded.”

Carlisle took a long swallow of brandy, “I am here today to advise you that your testimony will be required when this matter reaches the Courts. We need your witness testimony, as someone previously unconnected with the Home Office, that can place the men both here and in France. For Armitage, the case is open and shut. He was caught red-handed, but the reformist's links to Armitage are circumstantial at best, and we risk them being found guilty of the lesser charge smuggling if we cannot join the dots. If I testify under oath, my life as a covert operative will come to an end. I would do so if it was the only option, but I can do more good out there in the field than behind a desk in the home office, or worse, waiting for my grandfather to shuffle off this mortal coil to inherit his title.” Carlisle shuddered at the thought.

“Yes, yes, of course, I will do whatever I can to help.” Edward agreed, “but one thing. Who was the man that was supposed to be assassinated? You never mentioned.”

Carlisle stared at him for a moment before clearing his throat, “I thought you knew. You prevented the murder of Lord Liverpool, the Prime Minister himself.”

Babington smirked at the look of surprise on Edward’s face, “Well if you’re going to save someone, may as well make sure it’s someone worth saving.”

Twenty-Three

The gentlemen finally rejoined the ladies in time for predicted drinks. This would be the first time that Edward would take his place as host at his dinner table since his return to Sanditon and Denham Place. Lady Denham had joined them, and it would be an exercise in forgiveness and new beginnings for them all, thought Clara.

As they moved into dinner, Lady Denham was escorted by Lord Babington, and Edward accompanied his sister, leaving Carlisle to offer his arm to Clara. As she laughed at a comment the gentleman had imparted, she could hardly fail to notice the scowl Edward directed at them. Oh, this was going to be interesting, she grinned.

Somewhat to her surprise, Carlisle delivered her to the hostess’s seat at the opposite end of the table to Edward. No one blinked an eye as she unfolded her napkin and sat. Carlisle took the place to her right, and Babington sat on her left. She felt a moment's remorse for Edward sat between Esther and his Aunt, but she soon reconciled the fact that he would have to repair the familial relationships if he wished to be accepted once more on his own merit. He caught her eye and saluted with his glass as he noticed her watching him.

Carlisle and Babington kept her entertained throughout the meal. Carlisle, in particular, was overtly attentive. It was fun once more to flirt, even innocently, with an intelligent man. He was witty and charming, and she had not lied when she had called him handsome, yet he was not Edward.

Throughout the meal, their eyes would meet across the length of the table, and the room would dissolve into nothing. Edward’s eyes, bright and alert, seemed to be searching hers for something. His smile was full of warmth unless she was conversing with Carlisle, then it would turn brittle, and he would look away. Curious. If it were anyone but Edward she would name that reaction and call it jealously. Alas, it was Edward, and she was hardly likely to inspire that emotion in him!

Carlisle was a delight, but in her experience, she had met men like him before. There was an air of detachment that cloaked him and a superficial charm that flattered and flirted but gave nothing of himself away. This was a man who guarded his secrets and let no one close.

So, as she enjoyed her meal and the accompanying wine, she presented the façade of a delightful dinner companion, laughing at jests and responding with equally verbose rejoinders; she genuinely enjoyed the performance. If she perhaps behaved a little too amused or a slightly too flirtatious, well it harmed no one, least of all Edward.

As the meal concluded, the ladies left the men to their port and excused themselves in favour of the tea tray. Once comfortably situated, Lady Denham wasted no time in beginning her interrogation.

“So, Clara Brereton, I see you have managed to charm not one but two of the men this evening. Well played, my dear. A little competition makes things far more interesting. Carlisle was eating out of your hand, and all the while Edward looked as if he’d swallowed a wasp!” She chortled.

“You are mistaken, Aunt,” Clara insisted. “Carlisle is good company, and Edward paid me no mind at all.”

“Is that so.” Her Aunt replied with a knowing smile. “You were obviously not privy to our conversation. Esther, what do you say? Every other word was Clara this and that.”

Esther laughed. “I shall not be drawn, Aunt. You may speculate if you wish to, but I shall reserve my own opinions, and I’m sure Clara would prefer to do likewise.”

‘Thank you’ mouthed Clara to Esther just as the door opened and the men joined them.

Unwilling to invite further speculation from her Aunt, Clara excused herself to check on Violet. She rushed from the room and almost lost her footing in her haste to put distance between herself and dinner companions. She had nearly reached the wing where the nursery was located when her name was called from a few feet behind her. Startled, she almost lost her footing once more but was caught by a pair of strong arms. Daring to look up at her rescuer, she came face to face with the one man she had most dearly hoped to avoid.

“Clara, why the devil are you running from me?” Asked Edward, unsure what had chased her from the room in such unseemly haste.

The dinner had been an exercise in patience and forbearance. Never before had he wished the courses away so that the meal would end sooner. He had felt an unfamiliar desperation to seek out Clara alone, and his desire to remove her from Carlisle’s orbit was equally all-consuming. He liked the man well enough, but seriously, if he had flirted with her once more, Edward may well have been forced to cause a scene.

Ever since Carlisle had spoken of marriage; a throw-away comment designed to refocus the conversation, Edward had thought of little else. He knew that society would baulk at the idea of a former courtesan becoming the wife of a baronet, yet he found he really didn’t care a hoot about their opinions. He and Clara were strong enough to withstand scrutiny, he was sure. He had wasted so much time already, now he was impatient to start living again, preferably with Clara and Violet by his side.

The only fly in the ointment was whether Clara herself would consent. He could sense the attraction between them. It was as tangible as the clothes on their backs. However, did she see a future for them? Did she wish to marry and what of more children? Could she ever trust him enough to offer her heart? That last was the sticking point for him. A shared history of physical desires was important, but not enough to ensure a lasting union. His father and mother had shared a marriage of convenience. It was certainly convenient for his father to whore and gamble and leave his wife and child to rot in the country. Not for all the tea in china would he be persuaded to enter into a union without sharing a real connection with his future wife. The effect of a loveless marriage on their children was not a fate he would wish to bestow. If he bound himself to Clara and found she could not offer him her love, it would be better that he never consider marriage at all.

Plagued by uncertainties, still, he asked again softly. “Why are you running?”

Clara stared back at him as if he had spoken in some foreign tongue. “I .. I wasn’t running. I just needed to check on my daughter.” She offered weakly.

“Hmm. Well then, let us check on _our_ daughter together, shall we?” He replied, not at all fooled by her unsatisfactory reply.

“Oh, you really don’t have to, Edward, it’s fine.” Clara tried one last time to dissuade him.

“Oh, Clara, darling. It is no trouble. When I think of all the years, you have had to undertake this task alone … I have no wish to neglect my duties further.” Edward replied, astonished at his ability to remain nonchalant. How crestfallen his poor Clara looked. Ha! His Clara indeed! She couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

As they began to make their way towards the nursery, Edward captured Clara’s hand and wrapped it about the crook of his arm in a gesture of gentlemanly support. He felt her stiffen at the touch, but she relaxed again almost immediately. He smiled to himself. Her body wanted to be near him even if her mind was a little slow to agree.

As they made their way quietly into Violet’s bedchamber, Martha, who was acting as nursery maid until a governess could be employed, was just leaving the room. She bobbed a curtsy as she passed them and left without a word. They could see Violet’s golden curls laying peacefully on her pillow, and an old rag doll tightly pulled into her chest in a possessive embrace. Clara moved softly across the room and kissed her child on her forehead. Whispering goodnight, she tucked in her blankets and then moved away. Having been newly acquainted with the role of father, Edward moved to do the same. He found it an unexpectedly emotional act and once more realised how much of her young life he had missed. He would make up for it now, he promised himself.

As they slowly crept from the room, Edward turned to Clara and tipped her head up so that her eyes met his. Eyes so blue he could swim in them, he blinked at the foppish sentiment. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for all that you have done and continue to do for Violet. She is exceptionally lucky to have you as her mother.” He spoke softly and sincerely. “If I could have changed things, please know that I would have been here for you both in a heartbeat.”

Clara’s eyes began to fill, and she tried to look away. Edwards hand, while gentle, held her face firmly in place. “No, Clara I need you to look at me when I tell you, _I am here now_.” As a tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another, then another, he tenderly swept them aside. “I’m sorry. I never meant to make you cry. Forgive me?”

Still silent, emotions clogging her throat, she nodded. Of course, she forgave him. There was little to forgive. No one can predict the hand that fate deals, and it was pointless to become lost in what-ifs.

It was at that moment that she knew in her bones that he was going to kiss her. As if pulled by some invisible force, they two moved forward together and at last their lips brushed. A sob tore from her, so filled with emotion was she, but as he started to pull back, she slid her hand up his arm to rest at his nape, pulling him towards her. That seemed to be the sign he had been waiting for, as his lips once more crushed down upon hers. This time there was no mercy. He gathered her into his arms and pulled her flush against him. The kiss was all-consuming, and nothing like their fury filled encounters of the past. This was so much more; more heat, more tenderness, more passion and something else – need? She felt emotions roll off him like mist over barren moorland, and she felt a connection that had been missing in all past liaisons.

Oh, Lord, save her! Overwhelmed by emotion, her heart raced in her chest, and she could feel herself being to panic. This was no way to protect herself from heartache, for he would soon ask her to stay; she knew it, but he would want to bed her not wed her, and she had left that life behind. He was not in love with her. This foolishness must stop!

Pulling away, Clara staggered, eyes glistening with emotion, knowing that confusion was written all over Edward's face, she turned and ran. He would not do this to her again. Not when her life was finally becoming one she could tolerate and accept. She would never consent to be any man’s whore again, least of all the man she loved more than life itself.

Twenty-Four

“Blast and damn it all to hell!” Edward slammed the door to his new study. He made his way to the decanters and splashed a large measure of brandy into an empty glass. How had he read her so wrong? He had played his hand too soon. Clara didn’t trust him any more than the next man, and he had foolishly believed that he could waltz back in and sweep her off her feet.

“Troubles, friend?” Carlisle spoke from one of the armchairs by the fire. In his frustration, Edward hadn’t even checked to see if his sanctuary was already inhabited. Groaning, he turned to regard Carlisle with a scowl.

“Are no secrets safe form you?” Edward grumbled as he made his way across the room and sat heavily opposite the interloper.

“I know of only one thing that can put a man in such a foul mood. Clara, I presume?” Carlisle offered in a sympathetic tone. “What did you do?”

“That’s the blasted problem. I’m not sure. One minute I was kissing her, and it was all going along swimmingly and then bam, she was running away.” Edward took a sip of his drink and sighed.

“Ah. So you rushed your fences.” Carlisle nodded in understanding. “You’ve been back in her life, what, ten days?” Edward nodded. “You need to give her time to get to know you again, man. From what I have observed, you are both trying to navigate a new path, and there are bound to be a few wrong turns and dead ends along the way.”

Edward chuckled. “When did you become so wise, Carlisle? We could have done with a spot of that wisdom in London, you know.”

Carlisle laughed. “It would seem that I have an unpredictable gift.” Standing to refill his glass, he asked, “Do you love her?”

Edward considered the question but found he wasn’t sure how to respond. “I thought I was in love many years ago,” he began. “I found that what I felt was not love but an overwhelming need to belong to someone and to something. Back then, I was selfish and driven by my own agenda. I gave very little thought to how my actions affected others, including the person I was supposed to care for the most. Then Clara burst into my life like a hangover after a bellyful of brandy.” He laughed sadly. “She was a tempest of energy and overt sensuality and was driven by the same forces as I. Like fire and Brimstone we collided, and sparks definitely flew.” He sighed, “We both did things we are not proud of. Hurt people, we cared for. Had the fates been kinder we may have realised that we were not adversaries but two kindred spirits traversing the same path.

Our treachery was discovered, and we were both sent on our way in disgrace; deservedly so. Before that happened, though, we shared one perfect moment together where it all seemed to make sense. Differences aside, our hearts and minds were in unison. And then it was gone.”

Sometime after, I was involved in a ridiculous scheme that saw me banished from these shores. Before I left, I ensured that Clara could contact me in the event of a child. I always intended to do the right thing by her if the need arose, yet when the news came, I was already in France. I could no more return to England than I could support a wife and child. So Clara made her own way in the world without me. Her path was a difficult one, and she was forced into a life I had never envisaged for her. She was pragmatic and content with her choices as they were a means to support our child when there was nothing and no one else. I have carried that guilt with me for years. I have also carried with me the picture of Clara in my mind, and in the words of a poem I kept close at hand that spoke more eloquently than I ever could of the regrets I hold for what might have been.”

Coming home. Finding Clara here brought all of those emotions back to the fore, and if anything, they grow stronger day by day. I want nothing more than to share her life and be a father to our little girl, yet I don’t know how to show her that I am sincere. I care not one whit about her past, nor do I judge her for acts she committed in the name of survival.” Edward looked down at the glass in his hand and shrugged. “I’m not sure she knows that.”

Carlisle regarded Edward in his dejected state. Had he been so desperate, So devoid of hope? Yes, indeed he had, in spades. He remembered well the pain and the desolation he had felt upon finding the one person in his life that should have loved him until his dying day was a deceitful and scheming bitch. How his wife had almost driven him so low that he thought of ending it all, so great was the pain. Then, the duplicitous creature dared to double that pain by dying, wrapped in the arms of his own brother. Oh, yes. He knew life without hope, and he knew how hard he had fought to regain some semblance of normalcy.

Denham’s situation was in no way as hopeless as he believed, but what advice could he offer a man who was unsure of the question he wanted to ask? For it was plain as the nose on his face that what Edward was searching for was love. His own feelings were evident to anyone with eyes, yet he suspected that Clara was too blinded by caution to realise what was right in front of her.

“You, my friend, are a man in love. And more specifically, you love two females.” Carlisle stated at last.

Edward looked up sharply; about to deny the statement, when he realised that Carlisle was referring to Clara and Violet. He slowly nodded.

“Well then. Anything worth having must be fought for. If you love them, you must prove it. If you want them to be a part of your life; then you must let them in. If you want Clara, you must assure her that your intentions are honourable. Accomplish all of that, and the rest will fall into place.” Carlisle finished his drink and stood. “I am back to town tomorrow morning, so I must get some rest. Think about what I have said.”

Twenty-Five

Clara was feeling uncommonly morose as she wandered around the house in search of diversion. Rain pelted the windowpanes, and there was a general chill in the air that proclaimed that soon winter would be upon them. Violet was currently occupied in Edwards study learning to play chess with her father. Needless to say, she had assiduously avoided Edward since their encounter last night.

That morning had seen the departure of Carlisle. Esther and Babington were due to leave that afternoon. They had been away from their home for almost two weeks and were understandably keen to be back with their children. Soon, it would be just the three of them. Even the Parkers had decamped to London for a few weeks. She must broach the subject of their accommodations, sooner rather than later. Perhaps Edward could help her secure a cottage in Sanditon for her and Violet, thus allowing him unfettered access to his daughter whilst keeping her safe from scandal, and herself safe from temptation, she added under her breath.

For the dratted man was tempting her even now. How easy it would have been to have fallen into his arms and never let go. She almost hadn’t. Had she not come to her senses and pulled from the embrace, who knows what the consequences may have been. Who knew she had such a strong will; to be able to deny the one thing she wanted most? Still, there was nothing to be done about it.

Making her way slowly back to the inside, she made her way up the stairs to join Esther in the parlour for tea. The door stood slightly ajar, and as she pushed it wider the sight before her caused her to stop abruptly.

From just inside the doorway, she could see Esther and Edward holding each other in an embrace, so tender and familiar. Whispered words were being shared between the two stepsiblings and though she couldn’t grasp all of the conversation she heard snippets. Enough to turn her blood to ice and her heart to splinter into a thousand pieces. A gasp escaped her, and she spun around, running with unladylike speed all the way back to her bedchamber.

“So, sister. I needed to explain my intentions towards Clara before you leave this afternoon. I very much hope to persuade her to agree to marry me. I understand that her reputation will be frowned upon, as will my own, and wanted to forewarn you in case there is a scandal in town. Our future association made prove difficult for you.” Edward explained. “Of course, it will all be for nought if she refuses me, but I hope to convince her.”

Babington grinned from across the room where he was buried under the morning papers. “Stuff scandal, Denham, it means little to us, does it dear? It may be premature, but I wish you all the luck in the world, Edward. I know I speak for Esther when I say, our opinion of Miss Brereton has improved immeasurably upon better acquaintance. I hope you receive a favourable response.”

“Thank you, Babington, that means a lot. Esther?” Edward asked cautiously.

His stepsister, who had remained silent while Edward spoke, moved swiftly across the room to embrace her brother. “I am so happy for you, Edward.” She cried, “It was always meant to be Clara, and she has loved you so well and for so long.”

“Wait, she loves me? Are you sure?” Esther nodded with a smile. Edward hugged her fiercely, so relieved was he to hear those words of encouragement.

“You see, love can overcome even the most challenging obstacles if you have but a little patience. You deserve happiness. I am convinced that this love was written in the stars.”

A gasp sounded from just beyond the door, and as Esther moved to the hallway, she caught a glimpse of Clara’s skirts as she raced up the staircase. Turning, she groaned, “Oh, Edward. I fear that Clara has just seen us here together and has assumed the worst. Go to her.”

Edward shared a worried glance with Babington before being spurred into motion. Reaching Clara’s room, he knocked.

“Clara? Clara. Open the door.” Silence. Edward glared at the smooth wooden surface that was blocking his progress.

“Please, Clara, we need to discuss this. What you think you saw, well, it wasn’t what you think at all. Open the door, Clara love, please?” he pleaded.

Slowly, the key turned in the lock and the bedchamber door opened to reveal Clara surrounded by chaos. Hat boxes and trunks had been dragged out from the dressing room, and the contents of the armoire were strewn all over the bed. Someone was packing and in a hurry.

“What is this, Clara? Why are you packing?” Edward looked around in confusion. “Clara?”

“Oh for heaven's sake, Edward. Of course, I’m packing. I can hardly stay here, can I?” Clara snapped in annoyance. Anger was more useful than tears; she’d learnt that years ago.

Edward, feeling slightly panicked, “What are you talking about Clara, of course, you’re staying here. This is your home. You belong here. You and Violet.”

“I must admit you had me fooled.” She added bitterly. “Kissing me as you did last night and the very next morning, I find you wrapped in Esther’s arms. Edward, she is married!”

Edward, dumbstruck, was about to respond but Clara cut him off.

“So, It’s as I suspected. Not content with Esther’s affections, you just want to buy yourself a whore as well. Is that the price for my bed and lodgings, Edward? I’d rather starve.” Clara stomped to the bed and gathered another mound of dresses and petticoats.

Is that truly what she thinks of me? Edward felt sick. Did these women know that she had the power to turn him inside out? Blasted female. She would be the death of him. Enough was enough. She could have her fit of pique and then she would listen, and to ensure that she did, he strode across the room and locked the door, pocketing the key.

“Why you … scoundrel. Open that door at once. We cannot be locked in here together, you foolish man.” Clara fumed.

“No,” Edward replied determinedly.

“No? What do you mean, no?” Clara moved towards him, “You can’t keep me locked in here.”

“Watch me.” Growled Edward, crossing his arms and widening his stance.

Muttering unladylike curses, Clara turned her back on him and continued packing her belongings with renewed determination.

After several minutes of impasse, Edward was at the end of his tether. “Have you finished your tantrum now, Clara?”

“Tantrum? I am not some petulant child.” She cast him a withering glance, “This is futile, you know. There is nothing you can say to make me change my …”

“I love you,” Edward interrupted.

Clara froze, “Excuse me?”

“I said, I love you, Clara thorn-in-my-blasted-side Brereton. If you would give me but a moment to explain, I can clear this mess up now.”

Now it was Clara’s turn to be lost for words. Her face blank with surprise, she turned to face him. Edward loved her. Impossible. She had seen him not twenty minutes past, in an embrace with the only woman he had ever loved. Hadn’t she?

“Before I begin, Clara, I must ask one thing. When you ran from me last night, was it because you found my attentions distasteful to you?” Edward asked quietly.

“What? No. Of course not.”

From the look of relief on his face, he had clearly been worried that his kiss had turned her away. Men and their pride, she thought, shaking her head. Non-sensical man.

“I ran because … well, because it was safer to do so.”

“Safer? Did you worry that I would force you?” Edward looked truly horrified now.

“Edward don’t be a lackwit. Dear God, that’s the last thing I was afraid of,” Clara assured him. “Look, it doesn’t matter. You were going to explain what I saw in the drawing room. That is of far more import.”

Edward, whilst not wholly convinced, agreed.

“What you heard or saw in the drawing room was the tail end of a conversation I had been having with Esther _and_ Babington.”

He shifted uncomfortably and grumbled, “Look, I hadn’t intended for it to come out like this. Remember, when this is over, any lack of suitable sentiment or grand gesture was down to you, jumping to conclusions.”

Clara raised her eyebrows at that remark; biting her tongue, she willed herself silent.

“You see, I ..err …” Edward began pacing the room, made smaller by the various obstacles littering the floor, “I had just informed Esther and Babington of my intention to marry and sought to gauge their opinions on the match. No, that’s not quite correct, I was attempting to gauge their appetite for scandal.”

Cursing, under his breath at his lack of appropriate words, he ploughed on. “Clara, you must know that your reputation is of no concern to me. Mine is not so sterling for that matter, either.” He paused. “I wanted to warn them that there may be a scandal. Neither of them cared a jot. Babington wished me luck and Esther was so thrilled by my choice of bride, she _flung herself into my arms_ and hugged me. Somehow, even after all the hurt I have caused her, Esther still wishes me well.”

“I see. And have you asked your lady to marry you? Has she accepted?” Clara asked carefully.

“Err, no. I haven’t actually asked her yet,” he replied, “I’m hopeful of a positive response, but one can never quite tell with her.” He added sardonically.

“My advice would be to get it over with quickly. Fear can lead to all kind of silly imaginings,” Clara turned away. Her hands were shaking, and her heart was racing. Nerves. She was nervous. Was this really happening? Could it be she had had him wrong all along?

Edward stepped forward and took her arm, slowly turning her to face him once more. He smiled.

“Clara Brereton. My darling Clara, you should know how I feel about you by now; how I have _always_ felt about you from the very first time our paths crossed at Sanditon House. You drive me insane, and you drive me wild with wanting you. We squandered our chance six years ago, and I refuse to let another moment go by without trying to remedy that fact. Clara, I love you, will …”

Clara stopped him, “Knee.”

“Pardon me?” Edward asked, confused.

“Down on one knee. If I am to receive these words, then they had better be done in the traditional manner.” Clara’s mouth quirked as he complied.

“As requested madam.” He grinned. “Clara Brereton, love of my life, will you make me the happiest of men and agree to become my wife?”

Clara’s face broke into a radiant smile and moisture filled her aquamarine eyes. “You are serious? I am not dreaming? This would be a cruel jest, Edward Denham.”

Jest indeed! Standing once more, he could wait no longer to pull her into his arms. Where she had always belonged. Finding her mouth, he kissed her tenderly, nipping at her lip and asking to deepen the kiss. This time she did not pull away but instead pulled him closer until their bodies entwined and there was nothing but the two of them.

“Wait …” Clara broke their kiss.

Edward pulled back but refused to allow her to leave the circle of his arms. “Don’t even think about running off …” he smiled.

Clara laughed. “No, not this time. I realised; you didn’t wait for me to answer your question.”

Edward grinned, “I rather thought it was implied, but for argument's sake, please continue.”

“You and I have a history, and much of it filled with conflict and wrongdoing.” Clara looked up into his eyes, “Even as we exhausted our energies trying to thwart one another, I knew I loved you. It seemed an impossible kind of adoration, never to be spoken or acknowledged, for how could I ever replace Esther in your heart. Still, it flourished in secret. When I left Sanditon, I left in the knowledge that for one short interlude, I had finally been honest and was able to show you without words what was in my heart. Those precious moments gave me Violet. A little part of you to love and cherish for all of my days. I never expected our paths to cross again, not truly. So many men fail to acknowledge their by-blows, and it mattered not one whit to me. She was born of love, and that was the only thing that mattered. But know now, I have never stopped loving you, how could I when I have a piece of you with me always? So, yes, Edward Denham, I would be honoured to become your wife.”

Edward reached down to place a tender kiss upon her smiling mouth. The tears in her eyes glistened and matched his own. Finally, finally, he had found his place in this world. At last, he was home.

Some time later be broke the kiss, “Wait” he frowned. “Our interlude was not that _short_. It was a perfectly respectable length of time, madam, I assure you.”

Laughing, Clara assured him it was thus.

Twenty-Six

The next three weeks passed in blissful contentment. They had broken the news first to Violet, who was thrilled to hear that she would be allowed a new dress for the wedding and that her papa would continue to teach her how to play chess. Clara rolled her eyes at her daughters’ response and her idea of priorities.

Esther and Babington were equally, if more eloquently effusive in their congratulations. They left that afternoon with a promise to be back, next time with all of their children to help celebrate the nuptials.

Next came a visit to Sanditon House, to relay their news to their Aunt. Lady Violet Denham smiled sagely and nodded. “It’s as it should be. I knew even in the darkest days that you two were made for each other. Kindred spirits if ever I saw them. Clara Brereton did I not tell you a husband would be found for you, well look at him – delivered straight to the very door!”

To her nephew, she smiled, “Edward, you will love that girl, and you will make me proud, do you understand? No more of your madcap scheming. My great-niece needs respectable parents, and I wish to have more children about me as I grow old.” To which Edward chuckled and gave his solemn promise he would put every effort into complying with her wishes.

Lady Denham had been pleased to offer Sanditon House and Chapel for the ceremony and had been a little surprised by their intent to have the bans read instead of opting for the more fashionable special licence. So, a betrothal of three weeks and a handful of days would see them stood at the alter amidst more friends and family than either had ever hoped to have.

Clara had been thrilled by the arrival of the Downing sisters; Rose, Countess Frogmore, Louisa, Marchioness of Berwick, and Maria, the youngest sibling. So too, Esther and Charlotte had both made the trip back to Sanditon in time for the special occasion.

On the eve of the wedding, all of the ladies made a jolly party, and as they shared stories and offered pre-nuptial advice, Clara found herself happier than she could ever recall. Having gone from the damaged girl she had once considered herself to be, without a single friend in the world, to being surrounded by such kindness and acceptance, she found she much preferred a life that made room for others. Friends.

Meanwhile, across the town, another gathering took place. Sidney Parker had opened his home and his drinks cabinet in honour of the imminent leg-shackling of another willing bachelor. Edward had been stunned to find that despite past animosity, time was, in fact, a great healer. Parker had shaken his hand and wished him well. He had said that if Charlotte could forgive his conduct, then who was he to judge a man. The failed abduction, and his association with Eliza Campion, had been the final nail in Edward’s reputational coffin. Devoid of every last shred of honour, he had been banished to the continent. Strangely enough, that single act had been the catalyst for change and growth that with hindsight, had been precisely what he had needed most.

Babington and Crowe, Earl Frogmore these days, were propped up by the mantelpiece laughing uproariously at some on dit or other, and much to Edward’s surprise, Jack Hargreaves, Marquess of Berwick had made the journey accompanied by Sam Carlisle and Kit Ellis.

It was truly strange to be back amongst the fold, Edward thought, after so many years adrift. Strange but oddly grounding. These were good men, and they were willing to give him another chance to prove himself. He knew in his heart that this time, he would not fail them, nor his family. Clara and Violet were his whole world. Someday soon he hoped they would increase their numbers. Both he and Clara deserved nothing less than happiness, and he would do all in his power to achieve it.

“Denham. How are you holding up? I hear the injuries have healed well?” Hargreaves enquired handing him a glass of port.

“I am well, thank you. I received excellent care and am now almost fighting fit.” Edward smiled in response.

“Ha, you will need to be - it’s your wedding night in less than twenty-four hours. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the lass with a show of poor stamina.” Hargreaves laughed.

“Let me worry about that, Hargreaves.” Edward grinned.

Carlisle and Ellis joined them then, and much good-natured ribbing commenced as was to be expected and due to the groom in waiting.

“So, what news of the trial? Have they set a date?” Edward asked in an attempt to recover safer ground.

Hargreaves sighed, “No date yet, but we expect it to be in the New Year. Denning and Jenkins are slippery fish, but we think we have enough to make the charges stick. Particularly with your testimony.”

“Let’s drink to that then.” Edward reached for the bottle and poured them all another glass of port.

Hargreaves nodded to Ellis, “My man Kit here has been given a promotion. He will soon be joining our field agents. Shall we drink to that too?”

Another round of drinks consumed. Carlisle asked, “Jack, have you told him yet?”

Hargreaves shook his head. “Was hoping to get him a little more foxed before I mentioned it.” He winked at Edward, “Now he’s spoilt my surprise. I may as well tell you, you’re being given a commendation for bravery, Denham. The Prime Minister himself petitioned the King. These are challenging times, and we need more men like you to step up and take responsibility.”

Edward was stunned. It felt good to be recognised for his part in the affair, but a commendation of any sort seemed a bit much for doing what anyone would have done. “I’m astonished, but that sort of recognition is not required. I only did what anyone would under the circumstances.”

Hargreaves studied him and nodded. “The redemption of Sir Edward Denham is complete.”

Edward shook his head. “Not quite, but it will be after tomorrow.”

Hargreaves chuckled, “Indeed. Have you given any thought to your future, Denham? Beyond being wedded and bedded, of course.” He added with a wink.

Edward rolled his eyes at the remark. “No. I have been considering options. Thanks to my recent ‘employment’ and the generosity of friends,” he looked across at Babington then, “my situation is no longer dire. But I recognise that those funds will not last forever, and I must make provisions for my family.”

“I will always have a place for men like you, Denham. Kit’s promotion leaves a vacancy I believe you may be suited to. An occupation that will keep you out of harm’s way but still allow you to in the thick of things. You’ve already been given Carlisle’s endorsement. That is hard-won, indeed.”

Edward looked between the men in surprise. “It’s certainly something to think on, but I’ve only just come home. I’m not sure I wish for a life away from Sanditon. Clara and I are happy here.”

“Think on it. The offer remains open.” Hargreaves smiled and walked away.

“There are worse occupations, you know. A nice desk job and a sweet wife and child to come home to after a day’s worthwhile endeavour. Sounds tempting even to a seasoned operative like me.” Carlisle spoke, a tinge of wistfulness in his voice.

“Oh come now, Carlisle. I thought you said you could achieve more good in the field?” Edward retorted in disbelief.

“Things change, Denham,” Carlisle replied, pensively.

“Edward! Come, man. We have some pearls of wisdom to impart on the eve of your nuptials – and good god, man. You are far too sober!” Crowe exclaimed from across the room. “Parker, I’ll be needing a fresh pot of Gunpowder…”

Their wedding took place on a crisp November morning. Clara was attended by Esther and Charlotte, and as they prepared, a sense of belonging stole over her once more.

“My, how far we have all come.” Sighed Charlotte. “Sanditon has changed all of our lives. Who would ever imagine six years after your marriage, Esther, you would be back here in your old home preparing for another?”

Esther smiled. “Ah, but Charlotte, this marriage was always destined to be. It just took the more circuitous route to come about.” She winked at Clara.

“My mother once told me that everything happens for a reason.” Clara frowned. “It’s hard to fathom how some things could possibly be predestined, but I suppose in the grand scheme of things, it’s true. The miseries of my younger years provided me with the strength to endure most things and had they not occurred; my Aunt would never have brought me here to Sanditon. Had I never come, I would never have met Edward or be blessed with Violet. So, maybe there is truth in the saying after all.”

“ _Men’s character is his fate,_ ” Charlotte spoke thoughtfully. At the confusion on her friend's faces, she explained, “Heraclitus, the Greek philosopher. ‘ _Men's character is their fate,’_ ” she repeated. “A man only receives the life he deserves. A man of good character will go on to find his happy ever after while a man of poor character will spend his days, always searching for something better.”

Clara considered her friend's words. “So, here we are, Edward and I, finally given the chance of happiness. Our mistakes have delayed our passage, but ultimately, we have sought forgiveness and may now move forward into a future filled with love.”

Charlotte clapped her hands. “Exactly. It’s fate. You deserve this. Both of you.”

As Clara stood at the entrance to the pretty stone chapel, she finally realised. The only person that could possibly ruin her happiness now was herself. She let out the breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding. It was time to forgive herself and all those who had wronged her. Her life was not defined by her experiences at all, but how she had endured and survived them. Therefore, she would forgive her parents for their neglect, she would forgive her beast of an uncle, and she would forgive those men who had used her for their own gratification. Most of all, she would forgive herself for all she had done in the name of survival. With an open heart and a renewed trust in their future, Clara started the journey down the aisle towards her happiness.

Edward was a married man. What’s more, he had married for love. Once, he would have scoffed at the notion. He had learned a thorough lesson over the years. If one cannot love oneself, then it's impossible to accept it from others. His journey to regain his self; his honour and purpose, had been necessary and had brought him full circle and given him a second chance. As he regarded his wife, his heart fit to burst, he knew that there was nothing that he would not do to make her proud. She and Violet were his world.

The wedding breakfast took place at Sanditon House and was hosted by the now Dowager Lady Denham, who advised the guests that they would be the first in the county to be served pineapples grown here, in Sanditon. The celebration was merry, and conversation flowed readily amongst the guests.

When it was time for the newlyweds to leave, they bid their farewells almost reluctantly. Almost, thought Edward. Even he wasn’t sufficiently redeemed to prefer the company of his friends, wonderful as they were, over the prospect of enjoying his wedding night.

Violet waved them off merrily, along with all of the wedding guests and was positively thrilled by the noise created by the strings of old pots and pans tied to the back of the carriage as they pulled away.

The distance was short, but Edward was pleased to have these first few moments alone with his bride. She had never looked for beautiful or freer of cares than at this moment. The shadows had lifted from her eyes, and he finally caught a glimpse of the girl she would have been if life had been kinder. Drawing her into his arms, he held her tightly as the carriage made its short journey to Denham.

Mrs Price and the rest of the small household had lined up in front of the entrance, dressed in their finest, to welcome the new Lady Denham. It was a touching gesture from a staff he had in the past taken for granted. He hoped they had noticed the change in their master in recent weeks and vowed to ensure their loyalty was repaid.

Clara stepped down from the carriage and beamed at the assembled staff. It would take some time to get used to being addressed as Lady Denham. The name conjured images of her indomitable aunt, and the thought made her giggle.

Edward raised an eyebrow at her private amusement but continued to steer her into the house with as much haste as was permissible in front of their servants, and at last, they found themselves in the master bedchamber.

Inexplicably nervous, Clara regarded the room. The deep reds and golds were warm and inviting, and the huge bed that dominated the room looked sumptuous. A tray of fruits and a bottle of claret had been left for them on the side, and a roaring fire had been lit in the hearth. It was a perfect spot for seduction.

Edward gently led her further into the room and turned her towards him. “I have waited all day to have you to myself, and suddenly you become shy? Explain yourself, Lady Denham?” He teased.

That name again! Clara laughed and was forced to explain her mirth.

“Good God, woman! Don’t bring that old dragon into our bedchamber!” Edward shuddered dramatically.

Still laughing, Clara wrapped her arms around her husband and suggested he simply call her Clara.

He smiled, “I like that, Clara. But I prefer Wife, my wife.”

Bending down, he kissed her gently. “I love you, Clara. More than words can express. For many years I carried with me the sad parting words of an old and favourite poem. ‘ _In secret we met; In silence I grieve.’_ I believe you may know the one.” He smiled gently, “It tore my heart to pieces believing there was no way back for either of us.” Wiping an escaping tear from her cheek with his thumb, he grinned. “But look at us now! I shall have to find another verse to remind me of you.

_“I calmed her fears, and she was calm,_

_And told her love with virgin pride;_

_And so I won my Clara,_

_My bright and beauteous Bride.”_

Clara smiled, “Coleridge. That is indeed a better verse, I shall never tell the poet of your misnomer. _Genevieve_ is such a pretty name, though _virgin pride_? Dearest husband, that ship set sail long ago.” She winked.

“Clara, my wicked Wife, I have never been gladder of anything in my life.” Reaching for her once more, he pulled her flush to his chest and devoured her mouth. No gentle kisses were these. Heat and longing overtook them.

It was sometime later, as they lay entwined in each other’s arms that his words to Hargreaves returned to him. He had told him that after today, the redemption of Sir Edward Denham would be complete. How prophetic that had been, for here she was, his redemption complete, wrapped in his arms where she would always belong.

Epilogue

_Later that evening, Sanditon House, Sanditon_

Maria Downing was bored. Bored with weddings, bored of pretending to be an embroidery wielding society Miss. Just bored. With her sisters, Rose and Louisa, enjoying the fruits of their deliriously happy marriages, she was quite at a loss to know what to do with herself.

It had been some time since her last episode of ennui had overwhelmed her. Not since Rose’s wedding to Crowe had she been so discontent. She supposed that it was just her time to fly the nest. Alas, marriage seemed so dreadfully dull with all that compromise and homeliness. She shuddered. What she needed was a little fun and adventure before she was consigned to the ranks of the matrons. At twenty, she was no longer a fresh-faced debutante. To be fair, she’d never really given it a chance. Her single season had consisted of a couple of balls and a theatre visit. Hardly the stuff of dreams to be sure. And as for the men she had been introduced to. Gads, but they were dull.

“Ah, Maria. There you are. Rose has returned to The Crown with Crowe, as the baby is particularly restless this evening.” Louisa, her kindhearted, romantically minded sister advised. Recently married and deliriously in love, she was now on the lookout for a suitable swain her younger unmarried sibling, much to said sibling’s horror.

“They are rolling back the carpets for dancing. Please say you’ll be sociable this evening and dance. It’s been an age since I saw you smile.” Louisa nudged her sister in the hope of drawing her from the doldrums.

Maria rolled her eyes at her sister’s cajolery. “Are there even gentlemen enough to partner us? And I mean real men, not those strange beings who look tolerably pleasing but have nothing but puffs of air for brains?”

Louisa laughed. “My, you have a wicked tongue. I shall ensure that Mr Ellis is available to partner you, he’s a lovely young man. I’m sure your toes and your wits will be safe with him.”

Maria looked across the room to where her brother in law was speaking to two men. “Which one is Mr Ellis?”

“The slighter built of the two men. Dark hair. He’s such a sweet man.” Smiled Louisa in encouragement. “I’m sure you’ll like him.”

Maria eyed the man her sister had called Mr Ellis with bored resignation, he would be kind and courteous and talk of the weather, she was sure. Just like all of the other men she had met of late. As she continued to study them, it was caught by the enquiring gaze of the other man in the group. He stared at her questioningly before dismissing her out of hand. Well. “Who is the other fellow, Lou? The one with the blonde hair?”

This time it was Louisa’s turn to roll her eyes. “No.”

“No, what?” Maria asked curiosity piqued.

“That’s Carlisle, and Maria, he is not for the likes of you,” Louisa responded with a frown.

“Is that so? Perhaps I could be the judge of that?” Maria grinned, “We're only talking of a country house dance after all. If you will not make the introductions, I’m sure your dear husband will oblige.” She started across the room.

“So, Carlisle, what are your plans? You have only to say the word, and you can be reassigned. It needn’t be France. More and more of our men are needed overseas these days. St Petersburg, Cairo, Boston even?” Hargreaves suggested.

“Though tempting, I have other responsibilities that must keep me here for the moment. His Grace is convinced that he is on death's door and suspects someone is trying to expedite his demise.” Carlisle explained. “I’ve neglected my duties for long enough. It won’t be forever.” He bloody hoped not, anyway.

The conversation moved onto other matters, and for a moment, Sam allowed his attention to drift around the reception room. The Dowager Lady Denham was holding court over by the pianoforte, and it would appear that instructions had been given to begin the process of rolling rugs and moving furniture. That was like a red flag to a bachelor; dancing was about to begin. A quick getaway may be needed, he thought wryly.

As his attention moved around the room, it was caught by a pair of intensely blue eyes, seemingly mid-scrutiny. He recognised the chit. Her resemblance to Hargreaves wife was unmistakable. So, this was the wild child? The unmarried Miss that was giving his friend the megrims. As her gaze continued to linger, wildly inappropriately, he might add, he quirked a brow before turning away, but not before the realisation hit him that for once in his twenty-eight years, he felt like the prey in some bizarre field game, so intense had been her regard.

Shuddering at the thought, he tried once more to participate in the conversation around him. He was about to speak of the importance of regional dialects in undercover work when his thoughts were muddled by a musical voice spoken from just behind his left shoulder.

“Hargreaves dear, perhaps you would be so kind as to offer me an introduction to your friends?” The voice was pleasing to the ear and sent a warning straight to his senses. Stiffening, he knew without turning who had spoken.

“Maria. Such a request is inappropriate, as you well know, lass.” Hargreaves spoke with an air of habitual resignation.

“Oh but brother, they are preparing for dancing and we ladies are devoid of partners.” Spoke the lady, in a cajoling voice that set Carlisle’s nerves on edge. God, save him from scheming females.

“Ah, I see. And I suppose the world shall end if you do not dance, Maria?” Hargreaves spoke, clearly exasperated by his charge. “Very well then, the Rt Hon Kit Ellis, may I present to you, Miss Maria Downing. Maria, Mr Ellis.”

Kit smiled genuinely and performed a courtly bow to the lady stood just behind Sam.

Carlisle grimaced. If I stand very still and don’t make eye contact, perhaps she won’t force the introduction and will be content with Kit.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Ellis.” She replied prettily, “And?”

Hargreaves cast him a look of apology. He knew well Carlisle’s opinion of the fairer sex, “and Samuel Carlisle, may I make known to you Miss Maria Downing, my sister-in-law.” He spoke the last with emphasis that Sam would be hard pushed to miss. “Maria, this is my colleague, Carlisle.”

Resigned, he slowly turned to greet the lady, bowing only enough to be polite. He spoke curtly, “Charmed.”

Meeting her eyes again was a mistake, he realised too late, and he was horrified to find that he couldn’t look away.

“Mr Carlisle. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” She almost smiled. Just a quirk of the lips indicated her amusement. An awkward pause followed, their eye’s not straying from the other, then she asked. “Are you of a mind to dance, Sir?”

Sam could tell that Hargreaves was shifting uncomfortably by his side, damn it, never mind Jack, _he_ was uncomfortable. “The thought had not crossed my mind, Miss Downing.”

A tinkling laugh escaped her, “I warrant not much does, Mr Carlisle, as your conversation will attest.” Her eyes sparkled with mirth. Damn, the chit was trying to goad him.

“Or, perhaps you have two left feet?” She teased, “Or some affliction that affects your senses and are afraid to try?”

Still, he remained silent. Then he heard it; someone had taken to the piano. As music began to fill the room. Her eyes flashed with a challenge and speaking softly, she asked, “or perhaps it is the society you find wanting, Mr Carlisle?”

Knowing he could either dance or cause unforgivable offence, he reluctantly acknowledged that he had been bested. Taking a step closer, he grasped the minx’s hand. Marching towards the makeshift dance floor, her hand still in his, he brought the lady to a halt where they stood facing each other once more. Both were utterly oblivious to the growing number of people watching their movements with interest, and in Hargreaves case, unease. A bloody waltz. Would you credit it? He fumed.

Bracing himself for what was, he was sure, going to be an uncomfortable experience, he took her hand in his and placed another about her waist, ignoring the sensations that the contact induced. Pulling her closer, they began to move.

Sam studied the face that was upturned curiously regarding his own. Those blasted, bewitching eyes, of course, a small rosebud mouth, clear complexion and hair like spun gold. Objectively he considered any one of those could be called pretty. Yet, put them all together, and they became something alarmingly different.

“What are you looking at so intently, Mr Carlisle.” She asked softly.

“Trouble.” He replied.

~The End~

References

_Byron, Lord. Excerpt “The Darkness” first published, 1816._

_Byron, Lord. Excerpt “When We Two Parted” first published, 1808 (wr 1813)_

_Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Excerpt “Love” first published, 1800 in Lyrical Ballads_


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